What should he do now? Frankly, Grince wanted little to do with mysterious doors that opened, seemingly, of their own accord, and even less to do with the chambers beyond them. He should be trying to find a way out through the corridors, he told himself—not poking around in bloody Mage-folk rooms. He had learned his lesson. If there were any secrets—or even valuables—down here, they could stay here as far as he cared. Then it occurred to him that he would never find his way out groping blindly around in the darkness. He had found no lamps or torches in the passageways, but surely they must keep some kind of illumination in the chambers themselves? If he worked his way round by the walls, he was bound to find a sconce, or a shelf with a candlestick, or something. Grince hauled himself to his feet. Oh, please let there be a lamp or a torch, he prayed. Just let me out of here, and I swear I’ll never meddle with the Magefolk again. . . . Keeping one careful hand on the doorframe to guide himself, he stepped carefully over the threshold and into the room beyond.
Forral’s last sight as a living man had been Aurian’s beloved face—within the walls of this very chamber. As he looked at her now, the memories came flooding back to him: the thick, clinging darkness that reeked of rot and decay, the maniacal cackle of Miathan’s laughter, the high-pitched buzzing snarl of the Wraith as it swept down upon him, and Aurian’s desperate, doomed attempt to save his life. He remembered the blackness sweeping over him—then the grey door had slammed shut behind him, and he could hear Aurian’s voice, frantic and tearful, calling, calling, from the other side. Then, the swordsman thought bitterly, she would have stolen the very sun from the heavens to save him. Now she sat facing him as though she couldn’t bear to be too close, her eyes cold, her face a picture of misery as she tried to explain what had changed. And every word she said was breaking his heart.
“But you aren’t Forral—don’t you see? Forral is dead—I was there when he died.—If you’d come back in your own body, as the Forral I knew and loved, I would have been overjoyed to see you.” Aurian sighed and looked away. “I’m sorry if this hurts you. I know you might have expected—and deserved—a different welcome, having been away so long and having returned so miraculously. But you’ve got to understand. I never thought you were coming back—there was no way that you could. I went through a lot of anguish before I would even admit to myself that I loved Anvar, but finally I did. And remember, you said yourself I should find someone... .”
“I know, damn it!” Forral roared. “Don’t tell me what I said! If I had known how eager you’d be to take me up on it, I would have kept my stupid mouth shut!”
“That’s not fair!” Aurian was on her feet now, her eyes blazing with the cold, inhuman light of Magefolk anger. “I mourned you. I grieved for you. I certainly didn’t expect that you’d come back in a stolen body and throw it all back in my face!”
“I did not steal Anvar’s body!” Now Forral was on his feet, too.
“What would you call it, then, if not stealing? Where is he now? Why did you do this to him?”
Forral felt as though she had struck him—indeed he would have preferred it if she had taken her sword and thrust it through his heart. It would have hurt less. During the long, aching wait of his exile Between the Worlds, the swordsman had held fast to the conviction that if only he could find a way back to the world of the living, he could put everything right. Now, with his treasured goal achieved at last, he was aghast to discover how wrong he had been. He had taken the stolen glimpses of Aurian that he’d snatched from the Well of Souls and woven them into a flimsy fantasy held together by hopes and wishes. But since his murder, the world had moved on without him, and he, Forral, no longer had any place in it. One look at Aurian’s face was enough to tell him that. Death had been right all along—there was no going back.—Sudden tears spilled from Aurian’s eyes, and she dashed them away with angry haste. “I never stopped loving you, do you know that? Anvar understood. He made his own place in my affections—he didn’t try to take yours. What hurts me most is that you would be capable of this dreadful act. I would rather have gone on grieving for you to the end of my days than discover that you were never the man I thought you were—that I had been living a lie for all those years....”
“No! Stop right there!” Forral’s own bellow could have carried right across a battlefield. He was astonished to find that Anvar’s voice could also produce such volume. Aurian shut her mouth with a snap, but continued to glare at him.—A mixture of relief and dismay flooded over the swordsman. So that was why she was so angry at his return. She thought that he was responsible for Anvar’s loss! He held out his hand to her, and concealed his disappointment when she would not take it. “Aurian, listen, please. Just sit down and hear me out while I explain what happened. If you want to go on hating me after that—well, it’s up to you. But at least you’ll know the truth.” Seeing her hesitate, he added, “Please. After all our years together, you owe me the chance to defend myself.”
Aurian hesitated for only a moment. “All right,” she replied quietly. “That’s fair.” Folding her legs gracefully beneath her, she sank down to the dusty floor, at the side of the empty hearth. Holding the serpent-carved staff with its eerily glowing green gem across her lap, she stroked the smooth, twisting wood with restless fingers, and Forral knew that she was attempting to control her anger and anxiety so that she could give him a fair hearing. He concealed a sigh of relief and sat down opposite the Mage. Never taking his eyes from hers, he began to speak.
Lord Pendral’s florid face turned purple with rage. “What do you mean, he just vanished? You imbecile! He didn’t vanish—you let him get away, you sorry excuse for a human being!”
In contrast to his master’s puce complexion, the Guard-Commander’s face was deathly white. Coadjutant Rasvald, watching from his safer position to one side of the High Lord’s chair, watched his Commander shift from foot to foot, transfixed by Lord Pendral’s ire like a rabbit impaled upon a spear-point.
“But—but my Lord,” the unfortunate man stammered. “The thief fled into the sewers beneath the Academy. I never thought he’d have the nerve to stay there.—I thought the ghosts would drive him out, and I had men stationed ready.”
Pendral’s expression grew darker. “Oh, what a splendid plan. So you decided to waste my troops, waiting for a man who never came out!” His words started in a menacing snarl and ended in a bellow.
“My Lord, please ... I was only trying to avoid wasting your troops, by not sending them into that evil, haunted place....”
The cringing performance of his superior officer was embarrassing to witness.—Coadjutant Rasvald directed his gaze discreetly elsewhere—he had discovered long ago that for a man in Lord Pendral’s employ, there were many things it was safer not to see. Rasvald looked at the walls of the mansion’s library, where a coating of paint obscured the scars where the old bookcases had all been torn out. Pendral had changed the purpose of the chamber to an audience room, where he received petitioners and, more often, dispensed justice to those who had defied or crossed him or broken one of an increasing number of laws—not to mention those who had failed in his service, such as the luckless Commander.