The Archmage was seething as he returned to the Academy through the snowy streets. How dare Aurian defy him! And over his own, accursed half-breed bastard! Miathan ground his teeth. He wanted to kill Anvar, to bury once and for all the mistake of his younger days—but he could not. If Anvar should die, then the power that he had stolen from the wretch would be lost for good. Miathan had to keep him alive. He needed that power.
Aurian’s words still stung. So I don’t rule the world, he thought. Well, one day I will—then Aurian will pay for her defiance! And it was fitting that Anvar should provide the means. Miathan smiled. With the additional powers he had stolen, nothing could stop him. It was simply a case of biding his time and waiting for the right moment to strike.
Miathan was obsessed with power. His ambition was to restore the great old days when Magefolk had used their power to rule the Mortal race. To achieve this, he had wormed his way into the position of Archmage with merciless cunning and stealth. He and Geraint had been friends—until Aurian’s father, with his subversive affection for Mortals, had been nominated as the next Archmage. It had been simple to engineer the “accident” that had removed his rival, but Miathan had not reckoned with the guilt that had pursued him at the murder of another Mage. In atojjgment, he had originally planned to make Aurian his successor, but now he had evolved a new plan for Geraint’s daughter. He wanted her at his side, as his consort— and in his bed. A surge of desire consumed the Archmage at the thought of Aurian. It had turned him cold when she threatened to leave.
Miathan now knew that he had erred in bringing Forral to Nexis. He had thought that by using Aurian as a lever, he would retain control of the Garrison’s voice on the Ruling Council, but his plan had backfired. Because of her allegiance to her Mortal friend and teacher, his pupil was becoming increasingly intractable, and her loyalty, which he had fostered with such painstaking care over the years, was weakening. Unfortunately, there was no way at present to solve the problem. If he was implicated in Forral’s removal, Aurian would never forgive him.
Miathan resigned himself to patience. Sooner or later, he would find an opportunity to deal with the swordsman. In the meantime, he must at all costs keep Aurian’s love and trust. With Forral out of the way he would soon break her to his bidding, and use her powers to further his ends. Miathan smiled to himself. How difficult could it be, to rid himself of one man? Forral was only a Mortal, after all.
Aurian was weary but satisfied. This had been her first essay in the skills that Meiriel was teaching her, but everything had gone well. Those long hours studying the intricate workings of the human body and learning to channel her power to repair damage and speed natural healing had not been in vain. Though she still had much to learn, her first independent efforts had been a success. As though dusting off her hands, Aurian banished the last flickering blue traces of Magelight that marked her Healing spells.
Her new servant rested comfortably between clean sheets in a room that had been provided by a rather tight-lipped Forral. Now that he was clean, she could see the bruises fading rapidly against his pale, fair skin. Soon they would be gone, and the Mage blessed her powers that could work such miracles. His eyes flickered open, and Aurian caught her breath at their vivid blue intensity.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said wonderingly. “It really doesn’t hurt! Gods, I’d forgotten . . .”
Aurian swallowed a lump in her throat. How the poor wretch had suffered! “It won’t hurt anymore,” she assured him. “I’ve taken care of it.”
“Magefolk don’t Heal Mortals!” His voice rose in disbelief. “Lady Meiriel wouldn’t Heal my grandpa, and he died!”
Knowing Meiriel, Aurian was uncomfortably aware that he could be telling the truth. “Well, Lady Aurian Heals Mortals,” she said briskly, “and you certainly needed it!”
“Lady—what’s going to happen to me?”
Aurian gave him a reassuring smile, trying to soothe away the fear that showed on his face. “Don’t you remember? From now on you’ll be my servant, and I’ll make sure you’re never hurt like that again. You’re safe now.”
“Oh.” He sounded far from convinced.
Well, what did you expect from a bondservant? Aurian thought to herself. Gratitude? She smiled at her own folly. If I were him, she decided, I probably wouldn’t trust me, either.
This time he managed to swallow the broth she gave him, and soon afterward he fell asleep. Aurian also needed to eat, to replace the energy expended in her Healing, and after the appalling business of getting her patient clean, she badly needed a bath herself. But she lingered for a while, watching him as he slept and trying to shake off the nagging feeling that she had seen him before. Anvar, had the Archmage called him? His body was long in the bed and broaH shouldered, but dreadfully thin. Well, that could be remedied. He looked younger than she had first thought, probably not much older than herself. His face, even in repose, seemed melancholy, with fine lines between his brows, and at the corners of his generous mouth. His jaw was firm, though his nose was rather big, and his fine bronze hair curled into the nape of his neck. And those eyes! Aurian had never seen such eyes on a Mortal.
Forral entered the room, and found Aurian regarding her patient with an oddly tender expression. He was rocked back on his heels by a violent surge of jealousy. What was it about this bloody man anyway, that she had defended him so fiercely against the Archmagep—and himself?
Aurian looked up quickly, her expression suddenly clouded.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I noticed.” He couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice.
Aurian winced. “Forral, I’m sorry I lost my temper with you. I’m really grateful for your help—”
“You’ve a warrior’s heart, lass, to defend what you believe in so fiercely—and to take on the Archmage, too! I’ll always help you, you know that, but . . . Aurian, are you sure this was a good idea?”
“Forral, not again! Don’t you understand that I’m no longer a child?”
Her meaning was all too clear. She sounded so sad, so wistful, that he had to fight the urge to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her as she so plainly wanted him. Forral pulled himself together. It was impossible. There were reasons for the proscription against love between Magefolk and Mortals —reasons that she had not considered. He had to protect her. He steeled himself against the longing in her eyes, forcing himself to be genial.
“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I’ve looked after you since you were a little scrap of a thing, remember? Us old folk tend to forget how fast our charges grow up.”
She looked away, and Forral knew she was trying to hide her hurt from him. He left the room hastily, closing the door behind him. Leaning against the polished panels, he swore softly and continuously for several minutes. How much longer could this go on? He should never have come back! Seeing how things were turning out, he should have left at once. He should leave now, but ... He couldn’t. He couldn’t leave her again. With a sigh, Forral turned away from Aurian’s door and went off to find himself a very large drink. These days, it was the only thing that helped.
10
A Shadow of Evil
When Anvar returned to the Academy as the Lady Aurian’s servant, he found that his life changed completely. He no longer had to suffer the bullying of the kitchen workers, for the personal servants of the Magefolk lived apart from the menials, and under very different conditions. The Chief Steward Elewin, a tall, gaunt, silver-haired old man with a gentle expression, ruled the household servants with a rod of iron, but he was scrupulously fair, and tolerated no gossip among his charges. As long as Anvar worked hard and kept out of trouble, Elewin made sure he was left alone.