Nonetheless, as time went by, Anvar became increasingly concerned about his Lady. She worked too hard, as though she, like himself, were trying to drive away her troubles with activity. She would come from her sword training, or her Healing work with Meiriel, looking utterly exhausted. And Anvar, no stranger to sorrow, often wondered at the sadness that shadowed her face. She began to spend less and less time at the Garrison, eventually only going there for her morning practice. Anvar noticed this, and wondered if Aurian’s unhappiness was somehow connected with Forral.
He knew for certain, however, that Miathan was worrying her with his attentions. As the year went on, the Archmage began to visit Aurian at odd hours—late at night, or in the morning when she was bathing after her session at the Garrison. He plied her with gifts, and was always finding excuses to touch her. Anvar saw the gleam of possessive lust in the Archmage’s eyes, and he feared for her.
Since his terror of Miathan was undiminished, Anvar was unnerved by his frequent visits. When the Archmage was present, Aurian began to find excuses for her servant to be in her rooms, inventing any number of trifling tasks to keep him there. Anvar could hardly blame her—in fact, he was relieved that she had some instinct of self-protection, though he could see that she was confounded by Miathan’s behavior. Unbelievable as it seemed to him, she looked on Miathan almost as a father, and simply could not believe that he would betray her trust in him.
Aurian may have been reluctant to face the truth, but Anvar had no doubts^A$ he worked, he could feel Miathan’s eyes boring into his back, and if he turned around, he was confronted by a savage glare filled with loathing and hostility— and an unmistakable threat. The thought of crossing the Archmage made him quake with terror. Miathan was not one to be thwarted for long, and Anvar’s only protection was Aurian, for the Archmage was not ready to upset her by depriving her of her servant. But it was only a matter of time. Anvar knew that Miathan’s patience was limited, and sooner or later, matters would come to a head.
When he heard that Aurian usually visited her mother during the summer, Anvar was tormented by fear. While he knew it would benefit his Lady to get away from both Forral and Miathan for a time, he was terrified that she would leave him behind, defenseless and in the Archmage’s power. He was sure that if she did, he would not be there when she returned. He doubted that he’d even be alive.
The day before Aurian was due to leave, Anvar was sitting on her bedroom floor with an oily rag in one hand and one of her riding boots in the other. He gave a final polish to the soft brown leather, then set the boot down beside its companion and turned with a sigh to the neatly folded clothing on the bed. H«~ was supposed to be packing Aurian’s saddlebags, but was find-j ing it impossible to concentrate on his task. The Mage had sr’” not told him whether he could go with her—she’d said that some reason Miathan had refused to allow it, but she still he to persuade him. Anvar knew what that meant. He was surprised, therefore, when he heard Aurian enter her rooms lil a hurricane. The door slammed shut with a resounding crasl followed by a string of lurid curses. Anvar shuddered. Obvi^ ously, Miathan had still said no. J
Aurian stormed into her bedroom, still swearing, pulled up short at the sight of him. “Anvar! I didn’t thit you’d still be here!”
“I’m sorry, Lady—it’s taking longer than I thought.”
“Never mind—there’s no rush.” Aurian returned to thr other chamber and came back with two goblets of wine. Handing one to him, she sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry, Anvar. The Archmage just won’t budge! I don’t know what’s come over him lately—he never used to be like this!”
Though he tried to hide his fear, the glass began to shake in Anvar’s hands, and Aurian gave him a knowing, sympathetic look. “Don’t look so worried,” she said hastily. “I know you’re afraid of Miathan, but you won’t see much of him while I’m away. Finbarr and I were talking last night, and he suggested that you could help him in the Archives. He’s sorting documents just now, and it’s too much for one person to manage. Would you mind?”
Would he mind? Anvar felt giddy with relief. Ever since she had discovered that he could read, Aurian had given him the task of organizing her own researches, so by now he knew Finbarr very well. Although he was a Mage, Anvar could not help liking the clever Archivist, and as Finbarr’s servant, he knew he’d be safe. Down in the catacombs, he would be well out of Miathan’s way, though he wondered whether Finbarr would have much use for him. Knowing his Lady, Aurian had probably talked the Archivist into the idea.
When Anvar went to take up his new duties, Finbarr’s dirty, disheveled appearance disabused him of the notion. The Archivist greeted him with relief. “My, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, Anvar! Aurian offered to help me with this appalling c, but I insisted that she go away as usual. I’ve been worried jut her lately—she insists on working too hard! Besides, all I is a quick brain and an extra pair of hands—though you’re as good to look at, if you’ll forgive my saying so. Come this ’—I’m working right down on the lower levels.” He held his dusty hands with a grimace. “There’s stuff down there at hasn’t been disturbed in cent-uriej!”
The days of Aurian’s absence passed quickly for Anvar. He to work harder for Finbarr than he had done for his Lady, he found an endless fascination in sorting the ancient docu-lents. The Archivist was delighted to have his assistance, and lore than happy to encourage his interest.
Finbarr was attempting to use the much neglected sorting of the lower levels to further his research into his own pet subject: the ancient history of the Magefolk. “If you look into the annals, my boy,” he told Anvar, “you will find that every Archivist has had his particular obsession. It’s an odd position, this—the holder’s magical talents are of small importance, except that they can be used to further the work in hand. My own powers, for instance, mainly encompass Air and Fire, but my predecessor was a Water-Mage, and the work she did in drying out these very lower levels, so that we can work in them, was invaluable. But what counts most is a love of order, and an insatiable thirst for knowledge—that’s what makes an Archivist!”
While they worked, Anvar would listen happily as Finbarr expounded his theories on the disastrous wars of the Ancient Magefolk. “So much was lost,” the Archivist would mourn, “in the destruction of Old Nexis. There are vague, unsubstantiated hints, you know, in some of the Chronicles, that we were not the only race of Magefolk at that time! Of course, we know that the Dragonfolk existed, though our knowledge of them is scant. But certain sources—alas, discredited as the blackest of heretics by many previous Archivists—hint that the Cataclysm was actually set in motion by a Mage who could fly, if you can believe it! Still others suggest that there were Mages who could live beneath the sea, and that all these races had a part in the forming of the four legendary Weapons of the Elements . . .” He sighed. “If only I could find something that might decrease our ignorance of those times ... If those four Implements of Power really did exist, then surely they must still be at large in the world—and should they fall into the wrong hands, then history could easily repeat itself . . .”