His deliberations were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Miathan cursed, and quickly pulled an embroidered cloth over the chalice to hide it. “Enter,” he called.
It was Meiriel. She bowed low. “Your pardon, Lord Archmage,” she said, “I must speak with you urgently.”
“This is very formal, is it not, Meiriel?” Miathan forced joviality into his voice. There was no evidence that the Healer was against him, and he might need all the support he could get. “Come, sit. Let me pour you some wine.”
Meiriel seemed very disturbed. Her jaw worked; her eyes darted everywhere as she sat and accepted the cup from him. Before he had time to sit again she had blurted out her news. “Aurian is with child, Archmage!”
Miathan froze, half seated as_he .was. The room seemed darker, and suddenly chill. “Are you sure?” he whispered.
“I’m certain,” Meiriel said. “The aura of a Mage changes once a child is conceived. A Healer can see it, though Magewomen themselves are later than Mortals in making the discovery, since we are trained to suppress the cycles that would otherwise warn us. It can be little more than two months yet and I don’t think Aurian knows—she can hardly have expected it. But soon—very soon—she will know.”
Miathan fell heavily into the chair. “Oh Gods,” he whispered. “Gods—not this!”
The Healer, braced as she was for a furious outburst, looked at him in confusion, then took a sudden, gulping breath. “How could you let this happen!” she spat. “With a Mortal!”
“Be silent!” Miaffiaft snapped, not listening. He was remembering a day long ago when a blue-eyed Mortargirl had wept before him, as she told him similar news—and, more urgently, a day not so very long ago, when he had conceived a terrible curse . . . His Aurian, gravid with that cursed Mortal’s monstrous spawn—a monster that he himself had helped to create, just as much as they—
“Archmage?” The Healer was tugging urgently at his sleeve.
“Curse you, Meiriel, get out—no, wait!” He crushed her hands in an iron grip. “You are a Healer—could you get rid of this child? Without Aurian knowing?”
“What?” Meiriel stared at him. “What are you saying?” “Listen.” Miathan leaned close. “You said that Aurian is unaware of her pregnancy. We must end it, Meiriel, and as a Healer, it would be a simple matter for you. But if Aurian finds out, she would never allow it, and she has power enough to prevent you. So we must act quickly. I’ll summon her now, and put spells of deep sleep on her while you dispose of the child. When she wakes, she will be none the wiser. We can say she was taken ill—that she overtaxed herself again, and”—the Archmage shrugged—“the matter will end there.” His eyes met those of the Healer. “After that, I shall deal with that thrice-cursed swordsman once and for all. This must not be allowed to happen again!”
The Healer gaped at him. “But . . .” she floundered, “you weren’t supposed to—I mean, I—”
“Meiriel!” the Arcrfmage barked. “Can you do it or not?” With an effort, the Healer got hold of herself. “I suppose so,” she whispered unhappily.
“Excellent.” The Archmage smiled. “My dear Meiriel, I am well pleased with you. This will not go unrewarded. Are you sure that no one suspects? Finbarr? Anyone?”
“As if I would tell Finbarr!” Meiriel’s lip curled. “He’d be no friend to us in this. He’s besotted with the wretched woman!” Her eyes flashed angrily.
Miathan’s eyes narrowed. So she was jealous of Aurian? He filed the information away in his mind, for future use. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll send for Aurian now.”
“Blasted, bloody thing!” Aurian tugged fiercely at the brush, which was inextricably tangled with a snarl of her hair. Then in temper she threw the whole thing away from her— brush, hair, and all—with the inevitable result.
“Ouch!” She banged her fist hard on the table, making the mirror tremble.
“Lady, let me.” Anvar hurried to her side, hastily retrieving the brush, which swung in midair, dangling from the tangled lock of hair. He freed it carefully, then, while she rubbed at her head, he brought her a glass of wine, taking the brush with him to forestall a further outburst. For some reason, his mistress seemed to be growing awfully moody of late.
Aurian took a huge gulp of the wine and smiled at him. “Thank you, Anvar. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She rubbed irritably at her forehead. “Stupid of me, to carry on like that. I don’t know what’s the matter with me these days. You had better give me the brush back, or I’ll never be in time to meet Forral.”
“Shall I do it, Lady?” Anvar offered. “I used to brush my mother’s hair ...” He flinched from the memory. Why did it still hurt so, to think of her? “Anyway,” he went on hastily, “she always said I was gentle.”
“Perhaps you should,” Aurian agreed. She looked surprised at the mention of his past, but Anvar knew that she had given up trying to question him about it.
Anvar took up the brush and began to work on her hair, carefully unknotting the snags with his fingers before carrying on. He enjoyed the feel of the long, thick strands that slipped like heavy silk through his hands. Soon he was brushing in long, smooth strokes, and he saw the rigid set of Aurian’s shoulders beginning to rela^,
“That’s lovely,” she sighed. “Bless you, Anvar. I can’t think how it got so tangled—it usually doesn’t when it’s braided. It must have been Parric’s cavalry practice. I’ve been on the horse, off the horse, underneath it even, all day—and that doesn’t count the times when I fell, or was knocked off!”
“Is fighting on horseback very different, Lady?” Anvar asked. Lately, she had been teaching him the rudiments of swordsmanship, and he was determined to excel.
Aurian nodded. “Completely different,” she said. “For one thing, you count on force rather than agility because you are far less maneuverable. There are different fighting styles, depending on whether your opponents are mounted or on foot. If they’re on foot, they’ll be trying to get in underneath and disable the horse, which in itself is a very formidable weapon— warhorses are trained to fight as well as their warriors—” She broke off with a rueful smile. “Sorry, Anvar. I didn’t mean to start a lecture. Parric has me eating, sleeping, and breathing horsemanship at the moment.”
Anvar smiled back at her reflection in the mirror, enjoying the ease that existed between them nowadays. “Shall I braid it again?” he asked.
“You can do that, too?” Aurian sounded surprised. “Gods, Anvar, is there no end to your talents?” She chuckled. “I suppose you realize that you’ve just talked yourself into another job? All that braiding makes my arms ache!”
“I’d be happy to do it, Lady,” Anvar said, and was surprised to realize that it was true.
“Thank you, Anvar. I appreciate that. But not tonight. We’re dining with Vannor, and I think I’ll look like a lady, rather than a warrior.” She slipped a fillet of twisted gold over her burnished hair to hold the fiery mass in place, and stood, smoothing the skirts of her emerald-green gown. “Well,” she said, “I must be off. See you later, Anvar—oh, drat! Who can that be?”
Anvar went to answer the door. It was a servant, summoning the Lady Aurian to “the presence of the Archmage. Aurian scowled when he gave her the message. “Bat turds! I’m going to be late! Did he say what Miathan wanted?”
“I’m sorry, Lady.” Anvar shook his head. The Mage gave a long-suffering sigh, but he had glimpsed the flicker of fear behind her casual pose. “Lady—if you want to get away, I’ll go and tell the Archmage that I made a mistake, and that you’ve already gone,” he offered.