The victim of a time spell experienced a few moments of disorientation as the binding magic was removed—it was an easy matter for Eliseth to remove the spell and to replace it with one of simple sleep, before Anvar had time to struggle or even realize what was happening to him. Once she had him helpless she began to tear into his mind, raping it of information, wrenching his thoughts apart without a care for the suffering she caused him and reveling in the soundless screams of his trapped and tortured spirit as his body convulsed in agony. Eliseth was enjoying herself. In hurting Anvar she was striking out at Aurian—and though she could have obtained the knowledge she needed far more easily had she killed her victim and taken control as she had done with Bern, she wanted to impose her will upon him, and make him suffer.
The entire story of her enemy’s long journey spun into Eliseth’s mind too fast for her to follow, but that did not concern her. As long as she had the information in her memory, she could peruse the details later, at her leisure.—When at last she was certain that she had taken all she wanted from Anvar’s mind she withdrew, picked up her dagger, and looked down upon the last spasms of his agonized writhing with icy scorn. She put a knee into his back, dragged his head up by the hair, and removed her spell. She felt his body tense as he regained consciousness. Down came her hand, and her sharp blade hissed across his throat, laying it open in a burst of crimson gore. As Anvar’s lifeblood pumped across her hands, Eliseth threw back her head and laughed triumphantly.—This time, Anvar went hurtling through Death’s grey doorway so fast that he barely had time to notice the intricate carvings. Before he truly had time to take in what had happened to him he found himself, stunned, outraged, and aghast, in the silvery half-light of the world beyond the portal, with the path to eternity at his feet.
“No!” Even as he howled his protest, the door slammed shut behind him with a low, concussive boom that carried dreadful overtones of finality. Spitting out curses, Anvar hurled himself again and again at the unyielding door—but to no avail. Suddenly, the memory returned to him of agony and helplessness, with Eliseth’s thoughts raking through his mind like searing talons—and Eliseth’s knife at his throat. Anvar stopped hammering at the door. His hands fell limply to his sides as cold dread congealed deep within him. With growing horror he realized that while last time he had entered this place voluntarily and had been permitted to leave again, he was here for good this time. He thought of Aurian, saw a vivid image of her strong-boned, serious face and flaming hair in his mind’s eye. A pang went through him like a dagger piercing his heart at the thought of losing her. This can’t be happening! His thoughts churned aimlessly in panic. I can’t be dead! Suddenly Anvar felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder. “Get away from me,” he snarled, his voice cracking in fear. Even as he spun, a voice cried out: “Anvar? Lad—it is you!”
To his utter astonishment, Anvar found himself looking into the face of Forral.
“What happened?” the swordsman demanded. “How did you die? Where’s Aurian?” In his anxiety for answers he reached out and grabbed Anvar by the shoulders, shaking him impatiently while the Mage tried in vain to settle the jumbled upheaval of his thoughts. “Forral—leave him be.”
Anvar remembered that ominous, chilling voice all too well. He looked up and shuddered. Death seemed to think his hermit guise unnecessary for someone who had passed through his realm before, and his dark, shrouded figure loomed over the two men at the gate. But the Specter’s attention seemed all to be fixed on Forral. “This has gone far enough,” he snapped. “Mortal, will you never learn?—I had a certain respect for your courage and strength of will. While you interfered with no one but yourself, I was willing to permit you your folly, but twice now you have accosted the souls within my care. Last time, your interference robbed a man of his natural passing and allowed him to be snatched into an unnatural slavery.”
Death’s voice was stern and implacable. “Forral, I cannot—dare not—permit you to linger here any longer. I had never thought to see these times again, but there is a power in the mundane world that is misusing the Caldron of Rebirth, and it is no longer safe for you to remain in the vicinity of the Gates. You must come with me now—both of you—and enter the Well of Souls to be reborn before it is too late.”
Forral’s hands were still clamped around Anvar’s shoulders like bands of iron, but the Mage paid them little heed. At the Specter’s words, he finally understood what Eliseth was doing—and why. Even as he opened his mouth to warn the others, he felt a wrongness beginning—the first stirrings of an arcane, invisible force that reached through the closed door of Death like the turning of an unclean tide. The misty scene around him flickered and began to grow dim as he felt himself caught, as though in the grip of a giant hand, and pulled back toward the portal that separated the living from the dead.
“No!” Death roared. “I will not permit this!”
For an instant all was confusion. Anvar felt one of Forral’s hands slip from his shoulder, though the swordsman’s grip with the other hand tightened. The force from beyond the door continued to tug at the Mage, harder and harder, its pull becoming painful as the intensity increased. Then Anvar felt, for the first time, the numbing non-touch of Death as the Specter’s hands clamped tightly around his arms. There came a cry from Forral—of horror and triumph mixed—and then only two figures stood where three had stood before.—On the roof of the Academy, the Weather-Mage finished applying water from the grail to the gaping wound in Anvar’s throat, and watched with satisfaction as the blood stopped pumping from the severed arteries and the sundered flesh began to knit itself back together. Eliseth waited tensely. It seemed to be taking a long time to bring her victim back to life—far longer than it had taken for the restoration of Bern. She glowered down at the lifeless body, clenching her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into the skin of her palms. If this didn’t work...
Anvar convulsed once, arching his spine like a stranded fish as his chest heaved with a wheezing, gasping breath. Eliseth acted instantly, striking out at him with another time spell. She sat back, feeling immensely relieved. For a moment she thought of removing the spell again to test her control as she had done with Bern and Vannor—but then again, why take the risk? The grail had worked perfectly well with the first two victims, and it was far more powerful than any magic this thin-blooded half-breed might possess to resist it.—Besides, Eliseth was in a hurry. She had done what she’d set out to do—and the information she’d gleaned from Anvar’s mind was even more useful than she had hoped. Until now, she had never thought beyond Nexis—but why limit her ambitions to the North? With Vannor in her power she had control here, and Anvar was in place, ready for Aurian’s return. If she traveled south now and sought other races to control, she could increase her power a thousandfold before her enemies—either Aurian or Miathan, wherever he should be, could find her. Besides, she would be safely out of the way when she instructed Vannor to make an attack on the Phaerie. If they should strike back at the city—as well they might—she wanted to be nowhere in the vicinity. Furthermore, the Magewoman had discovered in Anvar’s mind the details of an invincible stronghold from which she could eventually hold the reins of the world in safety and security. It was as well that there were no more dragons in the city of Dhiammara, for Eliseth intended to use the place herself.