Anvar had a bunk in the servants’ dormitory next to the Mages’ Tower. Regular, hearty meals were served in the adjacent refectory, and personal servants were issued clean, neat working clothes every day.
Anvar was torn between gratitude and resentment for the Mage who had rescued him. She had saved him from the Archmage’s wrath, and thanks to her, his life had improved considerably—but by asking him to swear Miathan’s oath, she had trapped him here. But he had no other life, since Sara had rejected him so cruelly. Yet how could he blame her? His fathering of a child on her had led to her being sold in marriage to that brute of a merchant. Even-if she had dared to help him with Vannor present, why should she? She had every reason to hate him! Anvar was heartbroken and bereft. Now he had nothing—not even hope. All he had was work. So he worked as hard as he could, wishing that his Lady would give him more to do, so he would have less time to think. Elewin was pleased with him, and Anvar welcomed the Steward’s kindly praise after Janok’s abuse.
The other Magefolk took little notice of the servants. On rare occasions when he came into contact with them, Anvar found Meiriel brisk and efficient, Finbarr kindly but vague, and Eliseth cold and scathing. D’arvan rarely spoke. Davorshan and Bragar were the two to avoid. Davorshan was simply a bully, but there was a genuine streak of cruelty in Bragar. He regularly abused the servants, who were all afraid of him. Even Elewin gave the Fire-Mage a wide berth.
Anvar had expected that the Lady Aurian, having settled his fate with typical Magefolk arrogance, would have little time for a mere servant, but he was wrong. She always had a smile and a kind word for him, and invariably thanked him for his efforts. Her consideration earned her little respect from the other servants, and this so puzzled him that he plucked up courage to ask Elewin about it.
“It’s simple enough,” the Steward said. “The household staff, I’m afraid, is somewhat lacking in imagination, and the Lady Aurian differs from other Mages, because of her association with Mortals. It violates what the servants see as the natural order at the Academy, and it makes them nervous.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Personally, I find it refreshing, but don’t you go repeating that, young Anvar. And never confuse her kindness with softness. If you take liberties, you’ll soon find that she has the usual Magefolk temper!”
Anvar took the advice to heart. He was still wary of his Lady, who was one of the hated Magefolk, and not to be trusted. He lived in constant dread of what would happen when the tale that he had murdered his mother spread from the kitchens to the servants’ quarters, and thence, gossip being what it was, to his new mistress. He wondered why the Archmage had not told her himself, especially during their confrontation at the Garrison. But one morning, within a month of his joining the household--staff, he found the other servants whispering in corners and avoiding him, and he knew that the secret was out. Even the kindly Elewin was looking at him with a frown. Anvar was glad to collect the Lady’s breakfast—the warm, soft, fresh-baked rolls that were all she ate at this early hour, and a huge pot of taillin—and hurry away to the sanctuary of her room.
The Mage rose early for her sword practice at the Garrison, and on these iron-hard winter mornings her room was dark and chill. Anvar laid the table and lit the lamps, and was cleaning the fireplace when Aurian, never at her best at this hour, entered looking cross and bleary-eyed. Anvar busied himself at the hearth, trying to make himself inconspicuous and praying that the rumors had not reached her. He heard her footsteps crossing the floor behind him, the scrape of her chair on the carpet, and the sound of taillin pouring into a cup. After a moment, she cleared her throat.
“Anvar—I want to talk to you.”
Anvar’s heart lurched, as his terror of the Magefolk blazed up within him, renewed. He dropped the bucket with an ear-splitting clang, and to his horror, the ash flew up in a cloud to cover every surface. The Mage leapt up from her ruined breakfast with a blistering oath, her hair and face turning powdery gray.
Anvar threw himself at her feet, quaking. “Lady, please—” he begged. “It was an accident!”
“Of course it was!” Aurian knelt at his side. “Don’t cringe like that, Anvar—I’m sorry I frightened you. I was half asleep, and that noise startled me out of my wits!”
She was apologizing—to him? Anvar looked up at the Mage in astonishment.
Aurian’s lips began to twitch. “Gods,” she chuckled, “you look like the offspring of a ghost and a scarecrow!” She ran her hands through her abundant red hair, and was immediately enveloped in a choking gray cloud.
“Lady, I’m so terribly sorry,” Anvar said in dismay, as she coughed and spluttered.
“Not to worry. We’ll soon fix it.” She gave a flip of her fingers—and instantly every speck of ash was back in the bucket. Throwing logs into the fireplace, she ignited them with a careless gesture. “We Magefolk’are ^o used to people running around after us, we forget we can do things for ourselves!” Then her manner sobered. “Come and sit with me, Anvar. There’s something I need to ask you.”
The Lady led him to the table, and gave him taillin in her own cup. His hands were shaking as he took it. Aurian sat down opposite, holding his eyes with her steady green gaze. “Elewin tells me you killed your own mother,” she said bluntly. “Is it true?”
Anvar bit his lip, not knowing how to reply. He was terrified of invoking Miathan’s spell if he tried to tell the truth. Besides, she would never believe him.
“Well?” The Mage broke the lengthening silence. “Why won’t you speak? Are»yeu afraid?” She reached across the table to take his hand. “Look,” she said gently, “I can’t believe this, and neither can Elewin. When he heard from Janok, who was apparently told by Miathan, that you’re a murderer, he was so concerned that he came straight to me with the tale. It seems wrong to me too, Anvar. If you were accused of murder, your case should have come before Forral, but it never did. I want to hear your side. If you were wrongly bonded, I’ll do my best to set things straight.”
Anvar stared at her, unable to believe that she was on his side. “It’s no good,” he said at last. “My father was within his rights to bond me. I wasn’t old enough—by a month—to be considered a man under the law.”
“And the rest?” Aurian said softly.
Anvar struggled to hold back his tears. “How could I have killed her?” he cried. “I loved her!”
With infinite patience, Aurian coaxed the story of his mother’s death from him, though he couldn’t tell her how he had put out the fire. “It was an accident,” he finished, “but it happened because of me. My father blamed me, and signed my life away for revenge.”
Aurian shuddered. “Your father is a bastard,” she said.
“No.” Anvar shook his head, his face burning with shame. “I’m the bastard. That was why he did it.” It was the closest he could come to telling her the whole truth.
“Anvar!” Aurian’s grip on his hand tightened, and her expression grew fierce. “Listen. Even if I can’t do anything about the bonding, I won’t have you unjustly accused of murder! I’ll talk to Forral this morning. At least we can clear your name.”
From that day, Anvar’s relationship with the Mage began to change. Aurian had Forral investigate his story, and after questioning the shopkeepers of the Arcade, the Commander ruled that Ria’s death had been an accident. Aurian announced the fact within the Academy, and at last Anvar was freed from the sideways looks and accusing whispers. Only when it had gone, did he appreciate the extent of the strain he had suffered, with the false accusation hanging over him, and Mage or no, Anvar was truly grateful to his Lady.
Aurian’s kindness to him became more marked, as if she were trying to make amends for the misery he had suffered. Often, as he worked in her rooms, she would make him sit and have a glass of wine, or some taillin with her, and Anvar became aware of a new peril. As they talked, Aurian would drop in a question about his past or his family, and he’d be lost for an answer. She was so easy to talk to that he found himself in constant danger of bringing the Archmage’s terrible spell into effect. Sometimes he longed to try to confide in her, and ask her help, but though she had done so much for him, she was still a Mage, and Miathan’s favorite, and somehow he could never quite bring himself to trust her.