“Ah, Lord D’arvan’s little lapdog,” the female guard sneered. “Mortal, you seem to have forgotten your place. You may be assured that when Lord D’arvan wants to see you, he will send for you.”
“But...”
“You dare dispute with me, Mortal?” The guard’s eyes glinted with anger. She made a complex gesture—and the warrior suddenly found herself lapped around from head to foot in the clinging briars of a thorny rose. Instantly, the supple green vines tightened around her body, cutting painfully into her limbs and constricting her breathing. As the tendrils tightened further, the long, sharp thorns drove deep into her flesh.
Maya fell writhing to the cavern floor, driving the manifold claws of the rose still deeper beneath her skin. Choking for breath as she was, she could not even scream. Already there was a high-pitched buzzing in her ears and her vision had faded to glittering black. ...
“Curse you, let her go!”
The roar was so loud, so angry, that it penetrated even as far as the deep, dark pit into which Maya was falling. She heard a fierce sizzling sound then a loud crack, like the sound of a spitting spark, followed by a cry of pain.—Abruptly, the strangling briars and their piercing thorns were gone, and Maya took a deep draft of sweet, sweet air. With a clang, the gate swung open, and as her vision began to clear she saw D’arvan kneeling over her, his eyes diamond-bright with rage and glittering with unshed tears.
As the Mage scooped her into his arms and bore her from the slave cavern, Maya saw that the female guard lay crumpled against the wall, her face disfigured by a blistered brand as though she had been lashed by a fiery whip.
“Never again,” D’arvan snarled. “Never, ever again! He raised his voice. “Hear me, you Phaerie,” he grated. “If any one of you ever hurts this woman again—if you so much as look at her harshly, I will slowly burn the flesh from every inch of your vile bones. I am the son of the Forest Lord—you know that I can do this. And for your own sakes, you had best believe that I will.”
Maya wanted to tell him how very glad she was to see him, but as yet, she lacked the breath.
When he laid her on the couch in the tower room, Maya gasped in pain as her abraded flesh touched the silken fabric. Her pale skin was mottled with bruises, and each labored breath scraped harshly in her throat. Though D’arvan was no expert at healing, the Lady Eilin had taught him the techniques to suppress pain, stop the bleeding, and seal the flesh of simple wounds. It was not enough, however, to overcome his guilt. As the tension of pain began to smooth itself from Maya’s face, he leapt to his feet and started to pace back and forth across the tower room, unable to face the condemnation that would soon appear in her eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you for hating me,” he told her wretchedly. “It’s all my fault. I should never have let them take you back.”
“Don’t talk so daft, love—we don’t have time for that.”
D’arvan spun, an astonished exclamation on his lips, to see Maya holding out a hand to him, an expression of fond exasperation on her face. “Come here and sit down,” she told him in a hoarse, scratchy voice. “On second thought, bring me a drink—then sit down.”
“Now,” she said, when he had obeyed her, “let’s get this out of the way once and for all. It’s not your fault your father treats his slaves this way, and it wasn’t your fault that we were taken back to the cavern—it was because that hothead Parric went and lost his temper.”
“I should have come for you sooner. ...”
“D’arvan, shut up. It’s done now—and at least that guard will think twice in future about mistreating Mortals.” Her eyes glinted with malicious glee. “I liked what you did to her face, by the way—I hope it teaches her a lesson.”
She squeezed his hand tightly. “Anyway, listen. I’ve been thinking ...”
D’arvan felt a frisson of unease at her words, like a finger of ice trailed down his spine. He knew Maya well, and he could tell from her brisk, businesslike tone that he wasn’t going to like this in the least. He looked down into her beloved face, wishing he could stem the flow of what she was about to say, and knowing already that it would be impossible, and unwise.—Already, Maya was speaking. “. . . Am I right in believing that it takes Phaerie magic to make the Xandim horses fly?”
Surprised by the direction her thoughts were taking, D’arvan nodded. “The magic is in the horses and the Phaerie both. Only together can they fly.”
Maya bit her lip and looked away from him, staring out of the window as though fascinated by the reflections of the lamp-lit room against a black background of midnight sky. “Then you can do it,” she said at last.
“Do what?”
Maya gripped his fingers tightly, her face aglow with urgency. “D’arvan, go back to Hellorin and renegotiate. You must return to Aurian, and take Chiamh and Schiannath with you. Flying steeds may give Aurian the edge she lacks.”
“Woman, have you lost your mind?” D’arvan exploded. “Were you not listening when I explained? Hellorin wants me to stay and rule Nexis. I’m his heir, as he calls it—his only son. He’ll never let me escape him again!”
“He will if I stay behind as hostage for your return,” Maya argued stubbornly.—D’arvan scowled at her, both angry and alarmed. “Maya, if you think for one minute that I would be so careless of you as to risk another repetition of what happened tonight...”
Maya’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But I’ve thought of a way for Hellorin to keep his heir and insure my own safety. No one would dare hurt me, D’arvan—not if I carried your child.”
16
Wyvernesse
Now that the river no longer ran as far as Nexis, the Nightrunners had been forced to resort to other means to smuggle their goods in and out of the city.—Aurian and her companions left that night concealed, along with various artifacts made by Nexian craftsmen, in a row of gaily painted wagons which, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be a traveling carnival. The Mage had to smile at such a fanciful method of moving illicit goods. Zanna’s idea, I’ll be bound, she thought.
Such a thing would never have happened during the rule of the Magefolk—in fact this was the first traveling carnival that Aurian had ever seen, though Forral told her he could remember them from his childhood. Miathan, objecting to the wayfarers’ light-fingered ways and their light-hearted manner that, by their very presence, spread a general air of restlessness and disaffection among the townsfolk, had forbidden them access to Nexis many decades before. They were a good disguise, though. For one thing, there was something very satisfactory in being able to hide in plain sight like this, and for another, respectable folk tended to give the travelers a wide berth. When not parting them from their coin, wayfarers were generally very private folk, defensive and hostile to strangers and outsiders—often with good reason. Also, they had a reputation for being notorious thieves, so people, quite wisely, approached them with wariness, if at all.
“Stop right there!”
Clearly, the caravan of wagons had reached the city boundaries. The Mage, huddled in the hay-scented darkness of her wagon, crossed her fingers as the wagon came to a juddering halt. Now, if we can only get past these accursed guards, she thought. With her ear pressed to the thick planking, she could hear every word of the conversation that was taking place outside.
There was a squeak of leather as the guard walked over to the wagons. “Who’s in charge of this rabble? Identify yourself.”
The second voice was rich and mellifluous—and very, very loud. “I sir, am the Great Mandzurano,” it declaimed. “I am the master of this exceptional troupe.”
Aurian grinned. She had only met the Great Mandzurano briefly, but she had already discovered that he was a former sailmaker’s son from Easthaven, and his name was actually Thalbutt. She had been surprised to discover that many of the jugglers, acrobats, conjurers and trick-riders came from similar backgrounds, lured by the romance of the wandering life.