Sobbing, gasping for breath, the Mage burst out of the tower door and into the courtyard—and swung round, at the sound of another voice.
“Aurian? Aurian!” Faint and ghostly, it seemed to be calling from the library, which lay across the courtyard to her left—and that was only natural, after all, for it was Finbarr who was calling her. Finbarr, who had saved her once before. Without a thought, Aurian turned and ran toward the sound—through the great portal, through the echoing, empty library, and through the scrolled iron door at the far end, that led into the archives. The branching catacombs rang to the sound of her running footsteps as the Mage fled downward, still following the thread of Finbarr’s faint, elusive call, constantly aware of the pursuing Wraiths that thronged ever closer behind her.
“Aurian ...” The voice was coming from her left now, from a dark, narrow, musty passage that Aurian had no recollection of ever seeing before. Though she didn’t like the look of it, there was no time for hesitation—the Nihilim were right on her heels. Sending her faltering Magelight before her, Aurian plunged desperately into the dark maw of the tunnel—and ran right into the arms of Miathan.
“I knew you would return to me at last!” The dead gems of the Archmage’s eyes were alight with a gleam of triumph. Though her mind screamed out in protest, Aurian’s body was limp in his grasp, her will rendered powerless by the hypnotic glitter of those dreadful eyes. Miathan plucked the Staff of Earth from her feeble grasp. His gaunt and haggard face was scant inches away from her own, his noisome breath like the air from an opened tomb. Gathering every scrap of her will, Aurian spat into his face. It was all that she could do. Cold and cruel, the Archmage smiled. Slowly, he turned the Mage around, until she could see the swarm of Nihilim that hung in the shadows, waiting.
“I give you a choice, my dear,” Miathan’s voice was an obscene croon. “Submit your body, your will, and your powers to me—or submit yourself to the Death-Wraiths, as their prey. Choose, Aurian. Choose now!”
“Never! I will never submit to you!”
And then suddenly Shia was there, between the Mage and the hovering Wraiths.
“Aurian. Wake up—you’re dreaming! Wake up!”
As the voice penetrated the sound of her screams, Aurian felt a stinging blow on her face. She tried to fight, but something heavy pressed down on her, preventing her from moving. She opened her eyes to see Maya, sitting over her with one hand raised, ready to strike again. D’arvan knelt nearby, looking grave, and beyond him Aurian could make out a pair of horses watching her quietly, their outlines blurred by the early-morning mist that drifted among the shadowy trees. The scent of moist earth and the rustling whisper of leaves told of a forest. The warm breeze and the thick, heavy fragrance of full-grown greenery hinted at late summer.
“Where the bloody blazes am I?” the Mage muttered.
“Don’t worry,” Maya soothed her. “You’re safe.” She helped the Mage sit up.
“But that was some nightmare, my friend!”
“Nightmare?” Aurian echoed blankly. “I don’t remember ...”
“Well, I do!” A huge black shape emerged from the bushes.
“Shia!” Aurian cried.
Another great cat, with heavier bones and its ebony coat patterned with dapples of gold, followed Shia from the bushes, but though Aurian was glad to see that he had come in safety through the gate in time, her attention at first was all for her dear friend.
Shia was purring fit to rattle Aurian’s bones. “I came to awaken you.” Her mental voice echoed oddly in Aurian’s head. “I was in contact with your mind throughout your dream—and it was not a pleasant experience.” She rubbed her head against Aurian’s face as the Mage embraced her. “Never fear, my friend.—It was only a dream. We’ll get Anvar back.”
“Anvar ...” As the memory of the dream came flooding back to her in all its vivid and ghastly detail, Aurian began to shake uncontrollably. Never, as long as she lived, would she forget that dreadful vision of Anvar, impaled upon the Sword of Flame....
Maya put a comforting hand on the Mage’s arm. “It’s all right, Aurian. No matter how terrible it was, it was just a dream.” She glanced up at D’arvan.
“Get her some water, love, would you?” When D’arvan had disappeared among the trees, she turned back to the Mage. “I already know about the dream. Your thoughts were so intense—probably because you were distressed—that D’arvan was picking up the details from your mind, and passing them on to me.” She frowned. “I’m sorry, Aurian—we should probably have wakened you sooner, but considering where we’ve ended up, we thought the dream might mean something.—When we came out of that—whatever it was—we were in such a sorry state that we all slept for a while. When you didn’t wake, D’arvan said you were suffering from the effects of your struggle with the Sword, and we should let you rest, so the cats went off to keep watch, while we stayed here—”
But Aurian was listening no longer. Maya’s words had been enough to drive the horrors of her dream to the back of her mind. She was remembering, instead, the final battle in the Vale, and her discovery of the Sword of Flame.—Scalding shame flooded over her, as she recalled her failure to master the Artifact, and the catastrophic consequences. Those horses, grazing quietly among the trees, she had also known as men—Schiannath the Xandim Herdlord, and the Windeye Chiamh, Seer of the Xandim and a close friend. Her failure to claim the Sword had unleashed the dangerous, unpredictable Phaerie upon the world once more, and they had used their powers to reclaim their legendary horses, turning the shape-shifting Xandim into simple beasts.
That was not the worst of it, however. Aurian remembered pursuing Eliseth and the wounded, captive Anvar into the gap that had opened up in reality, and trying to follow them through an endless, viscous grey nothingness interspersed with flashes of lurid color. She remembered nausea and disorientation, and helpless panic when her prey had disappeared at last. She recalled the last desperate, wrenching effort that had brought her—with these dear and loyal friends who had followed her—back to the real world. And with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, the Mage realized that, thanks to her own failure, Eliseth had not only Anvar, but two of the Artifacts—the Grail of Rebirth, and the all-powerful Sword of Flame.—Suddenly Aurian gasped, and frantically groped around her in the thick bed of leaves. She found the Staff of Earth first, safe and sound, and then, as her hand fell on the Harp of Winds, it responded with a plangent cascade of shivering notes, as though the Artifact itself was mourning for Anvar, who had made it his own.
D’arvan returned at that moment, and sat down beside her, placing a dripping cone of folded birch bark in her hands. “Here, you’ll feel better for this,” he told her. “I’m sorry we have nothing stronger—you look as though you could do with it.”
“You can say that again,” Aurian muttered. But, though her nerves were still unstrung and her worries ever-pressing, the sight of the makeshift cup soothed her with its happy memories. She caught Maya’s eye. “I see you’ve been teaching him some of Forral’s wilderness survival techniques. . . .” Her words trailed off. The warrior had mentioned something earlier, about...
“Maya?” The Mage gripped the fragile birch cup so tightly that it crumpled in her fist. “Considering where we’ve ended up, you said. Just where have we ended up?”
The small, dark-haired warrior sighed. “We’re in the woods, above the southern side of Nexis.”
Aurian dropped the ruined cup, barely noticing that she had done so. “What does Nexis look like?” she asked softly.
Maya bit her lip, plainly reluctant to answer, and finally it was D’arvan who replied.