Her voice faltered, as the rigid control she had maintained all through the night began to crumble.
Anvar took her proffered hand. “Then we’ll do it together,” he said, and gathered her into his arms as she began to sob, giving in at last to all her grief as she accepted the burden of continuing to live.
After a time Aurian pulled away from Anvar, wiping her face on her sleeve.
“That’s a terrible habit,” he said, with a crooked grin, and she managed a shaky smile in return.
“Someone forgot to pack the handkerchiefs,” she said.
“Disgraceful,” Anvar said. “I’d beat your servant, if I were you.”
“Oh, he has his good points. At least he remembered to bring my proper clothes.” Aurian rummaged in the bottom of the boat, hauling her bundle out from beneath Sara’s head. “I’d better get moving and find us a ship. It’ll be getting light all too soon, and I want us safely out of sight before too many people are up and moving about. Thank goodness the nights are so long just now.”
As she spoke, she pulled her fighting clothes out of the pack, and began to strip off the soaked, tattered remnants of her green gown. Anvar averted his eyes politely, but Aurian was forced to enlist his aid in donning her warrior’s gear, since the leather was damp from their encounter with the weir and her fingers were stiff with cold.
“Right,” she said briskly, when she was ready, “I’ll try to be as quick as I can.”
“Lady, surely you don’t mean to go alone?”
“Can’t be helped.” Aurian looked down at Sara’s unconscious form with a frown. “You’ll have to stay here and keep an eye on her.” She grimaced. “Gods, but she’s going to be a nuisance.”
“Lady, I ...” Anvar found himself flushing guiltily. How could he even begin to explain to her about Sara—about the love that they had once shared?
Aurian looked at him quizzically. “You do know her, don’t you?” she said. “Thsrday, when they brought you to the Garrison—when we first met—she was lying, wasn’t she, when she said she’d never seen you before?”
Miserably, Anvar nodded, wondering how she would react when he told her that he and Vannor’s wife had once been lovers.
Luckily, Aurian spared him. “More complications, eh?” she said ruefully. “Well, you can tell me about it later, Anvar. I really must get going.” Fastening her damp cloak around her shoulders, she climbed carefully up the tangle of half-collapsed timbers that supported the old pier and vanished among the shadows of the wharf.
Anvar settled back into the bottom of the boat and lapsed into his own worried thoughts. Aurian’s sudden briskness had not fooled him in the least. He knew how deeply she was grieving for Forral, and was concerned about the effect that it would have on her judgment. This whole plan of hers, to raise an army to defeat the Archmage, was pure insanity. But he had no better plan to offer—only to flee, as far and as fast as possible. Well, they were doing that now, and perhaps in time she would come to her senses.
Anvar wondered where Vannor was now. Had the merchant managed to escape? Suddenly, it occurred to him that if Vannor was killed, then Sara would be free . . . Guiltily, he stifled the thought. Vannor was a good man, he knew that now. He wondered how the merchant would react to the knowledge that he had given his beloved wife into the hands of her one-time lover. Sara, he was surer^didn’t care two pins for her doting husband, and Anvar wondered what she would do now that she was free from him. He looked down at her as she slept, her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders. She looked so fragile —so beautiful. With a pang, Anvar remembered the old days, when they were young and in love, happy with each other and confident in their future. Was there no hope that they could be that way again? Had he not a right to some happiness?
The light of a damp, gray day was growing by the time Aurian made her way back along the wharf, keeping close to the cover of the derelict warehouses. It had taken forever to find a vessel whose captain would convey them, and his price had been extortionate—far more than the gold that Vannor had given her. She’d given him all she had, and done some fast talking to convince him that the remainder would be waiting at the journey’s end. As she returned to Anvar, the Mage worried about the company they would be keeping on board the rat-infested, leaky old ship. She had never in her life seen such a villainous-looking crew, but she knew she had no choice but to risk it. If Miathan was not already searching for them, he soon would be.
By the time she reached the boat, Aurian felt faint with weariness, her mind fuzzy and slow. Anvar scrambled up, offering his hand to help her descend the slick, rotting timbers, and she was grateful for his steadying grasp. “Come on,” she said, when they had reached the safety of the boat. “I’ve bought us passage to Easthaven. We can travel overland from there.”
“What about Sara?”
“We don’t have time to argue the issue. I’ll take care of it.” Aurian snapped her fingers near the sleeping girl’s face. “Come,” she commanded. Sara’s eyes flicked open, her expression utterly blank. She rose stiffly to her feet, and Anvar grabbed quickly at a piling to steady the rocking boat.
“We can’t take her aboard like that!” he protested.
“We have to. Pull her hood down over her face and take her arm. You’ll have to guide her.” Aurian’s expression brooked no argument.
They had a dreadful struggle to get the girl up onto the pier, but after that Sara walked along quite naturally, steered by Anvar’s guiding hand while Aurian carried the packs. The one or two early passersby that they met paid them little heed, and Aurian began to breathe more easily.
But when Anvar saw the ship that was to take them, he stopped dead, his face a picture of dismay. “Oh, Lady, no,” he said. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
“Anvar, what do you want from me?” Aurian snapped, close to tears. “Look at the state of us! We hardly look respectable, do we? Did you think any decent captain was going to take us? I did my best—and it’s better than waiting here for Miathan to find us!” To that, she knew, Anvar could have no answer.
Shaking his head, he led Sara up the narrow, slippery gangplank that led to the dcqk of the dilapidated little sailing ship.
Captain Jurdag had side-whiskers and greasy ginger hair tied in a pigtail. Gold rings glinted in his ears, and his narrow face and feral expression reminded Aurian of a weasel. He bowed to her with leering mock courtesy, and the rest of the lounging crew—a shabby, scarred, pockmarked bunch—snickered.
Aurian gave them a level, steely glare, and there was a sudden, tense silence. “Show us to our cabin, Captain, and prepare to make sail,” she said coolly.
“Very well, Lady.” The captain turned the word into an epithet, and Aurian, seeing Anvar’s face flush with anger, gripped his arm tightly and shook her head.
They were shown into a tiny, filthy cabin in the stern of the ship that the captain had obviously vacated for their use. Aurian picked up a pile of stinking unwashed clothes from the floor and handed them to him. “Yours, I imagine,” she said. “That will be all for now.”
He left, scowling, and Aurian barred the door behind him with a sigh of relief. “Dear Gods!” she said. “I’m sorry about this, Anvar.”
Anvar was struggling with the catch of a tiny salt-encrusted pane set in the stern wall. It was the only means of ventilation in the room. “How long does it take to get to Easthaven?” he asked faintly.
“With good winds, about four days,” Aurian said gloomily. “If we don’t get our throats cut in the meantime.”