“Thanks—but I’d better go myself. Miathan is the sort to blame the messenger for the tidings! I’ll come back for my cloak before I go—hopefully this won’t take too long.”
When Aurian had gone, Anvar busied himself about her rooms, tidying away the clothing she’d discarded on her return from the Garrison. He picked up her leather fighting clothes and her sword belt and boots, rolling them into a bundle with the cloak that had once belonged to Forral. He left them by the door, near her sword that stood propped against the wall. He’d clean them later, he thought. They stank of horses. He emptied her bath, built up the fire, and placed a new flask of wine on the table, ready for her return. His tasks completed, Anvar was about to reach for his guitar to while away a solitary hour or two, when he saw her staff, which had rolled beneath the bed, forgotten.
A staff was a vital tool for a Mage, serving to focus and concentrate their power. Each of the Magefolk, on reaching a certain degree of aptitude, would make a staff from one of the traditional magical trees—from a branch or a root, as they preferred—and fuse it with their power and personality. Aurian had delayed long over making her staff, knowing she was clumsy at carving and afraid that the result would be a disaster.
Seeking a way to repay her generous Solstice gift, Anvar had gone to the woods south of the river and found a twisted root of beech, Aurian’s favorite tree. He had carved it carefully, using the skills his grandpa had taught him and using the natural twists of the wood to form the two Serpents of the High Magic—the Serpent of Might and the Serpent of Wisdom— that coiled, intertwining, up the length of the staff from bottom to top. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever made, with a force and life of its own, even before it was imbued with magic. Aurian had been overjoyed with it, and her delight had been reward indeed for Anvar.
Anvar bent to pick up the staff—and dropped it as though it had burned him. When his fingers had touched the wood, he’d felt a jolt of fear—a flash of panic as though Aurian had cried out to him in helpless desperation. Cautiously, he reached for it again, but this time, there was nothing. Turning the staff in his hands, Anvar frowned. What had happened to Aurian? She had been gone for ages! Was something wrong? Had she managed to reach out to him via this implement that he had made, and she had infused with her power? A knot of pain formed between Anvar’s eyes at the thought, but he refused to be put off, remembering the flash of fear on her face when she was summoned by Miathan. Terrified though he was of the Archmage, Anvar knew he would have to find out if she was all right.
With dragging feet, he climbed to the topmost floor, trying without success to convince himself that he’d imagined the whole thing. Miathan’s door was slightly ajar. Anvar was lifting his hand to knock when he heard voices within. The Archmage —and Meiriel? Where was Aurian? He froze, one hand lifted, chilled by what he heard.
“It isn’t working, Miathan.” Meiriel’s voice was strained. “Even under your spells, she instinctively fights to protect the child.”
“Plague on it! Is there nothing you can do?” “Well . . . There’s a drug that I could try. It would work on her mind, to make her malleable to our commands. We might be able to make her expel the brat herself.” “Do you have it with you?”
“Of course!” Meiriel snapped. “We must hurry, though. It will take the drug about an hour to take effect, and if we should be discovered in the meantime—”
“Don’t worry. Eliseth and her companions will no doubt be occupied in plotting their usual mischief, and you know that Finbarr never leaves his Archives! Get on with it, Meiriel! For-ral’s child must not survive this night!”
Anvar gasped, steadying himself against the cold stone wall of the tower, his mind spinning with confusion . . . Aurian’s babe, destroyed as Sara’s had been, and for similar reasons . . . His child-^Forral’s child . . . Forral! Turning, Anvar ran, soft-footed until he was well around the first curve, then descending the spiral stairs at a breakneck pace. Without thinking, he thrust the staff into his belt as he reached the bottom, then pelted across the torchlit courtyard to the stables next to the guardhouse. “A horse, quick!” he yelled to the startled guards. “I’m on an urgent errand for the Lady Aurian!” They knew by now that he was the Lady’s trusted servant, and did not hinder him. He snatched a bridle and forced it onto the nearest animal, then without waiting for a saddle he vaulted astride, ducking beneath the stable doorway. He spurred out of the gate just as the guards raised the signal lantern that would alert the gatekeeper to open the lower gates.
Anvar reached the gates of the Garrison, pursued by several mounted troopers who had taken exception to him hurtling through the city streets, heedlessly scattering the passersby who got in his way. Two guards stood forth to bar his way, and Anvar wrenched at the horse’s mouth, throwing himself off the startled beast before it had time to skid to a halt. He thrust the reins at the astonished soldiers. “Commander Forral!” he gasped. “Quick—where is he?”
Luckily one of the guards was Parric. “In his quarters, but—” He was talking to empty air. Anvar had gone, shouldering past him and running across the parade ground to the officers’ quarters. The troopers, arriving close on his heels, looked at Parric, who simply shrugged.
Anvar hammered frantically on Forral’s door, almost hitting the Commander in the face as he opened it.
“Anvar, what in the world . . .”
Anvar almost fell into the room, barely noticing Vannor seated by the fire. Clutching at Forral’s tunic, he gasped out his story. The result was unexpected. Anvar, knowing Forral as a cool, capable, professional soldier, had failed to realize that the swordsman might have a blind spot where Aurian was concerned. Forral’s face went absolutely white; all reason fled from his eyes. “Miathan,” he howled in an inhuman voice, and snatching up his sword, he fled from the room. Vannor and Anvar stared at each other, horrified, then, as one, they rushed out after the berserk swordsman.
By the time they had found norses and made their way through the crowded streets of the clty^Torral was well ahead of them. The gatehouse on the causeway showed the horrific evidence of his passing: the gatekeeper lay huddled and twisted in a pool of blood. In the courtyard above was a worse scene of carnage, with dead guards and servants littering the bloodstained paving stones. Forral’s warhorse stood by the tower door, its sides heaving, its ears laid back and nostrils flaring at the scent of blood. Anvar and Vannor hurled themselves from their mounts and dashed up the steps of the tower—only to stop dead on Miathan’s threshold, frozen by the horror within.
Aurian was lost in a dark dream, fighting with all her strength against something dark and nebulous, twisted and unspeakably evil—something that strove to possess her very soul.
She fought, desperate, weaponless, feeling herself gradually beginning to weaken, feeling her will slowly slipping away in the face of the dark terror—the voice that strove to master her. Then another voice reached her, crying Miathan’s name. Forral! She clung to his voice—a lifeline pulling her up—up and out ...
Aurian opened her eyes, saw the lamplight of Miathan’s opulent quarters, saw Meiriel cowering in a corner—and saw Forral, splattered with blood and clutching a gory, dripping sword, advancing on the Archmage. Miathan retreated behind the table, snatching at a cloth that covered something ... A chalice of graven, burnished gold. In a chilling voice, the Archmage began to intone the words of a spell, in a language ancient and steeped in evil. Aurian felt an agonizing buzzing within her skull as the buildup of dark, obscene magic permeated the chamber. “Miathan, no!” she shrieked, struggling to fight off the effects of the drug and rise from the couch where she lay. Forral continued his slow, inexorable advance, murder in his eyes. Desperate, Aurian sent out a frantic mental call for help—to Finbarr, the only Mage she could still trust.