Anvar, she was half-aware, was on his feet now, confronting the dark and eldritch figure of the Specter, putting himself between the Mage and Death.—Aurian had no attention to spare them, however—her entire being was focused on maintaining her hold on the Staff of Earth. And as she looked back into the pool she saw two things happen, so close together that she could never, afterward, decide which had come first.
Beneath the rippling surface of the pool, the outline of the Staff began to alter. The two carved serpents, their jaws still conjoined about the great green stone that held the powers of the Artifact, began to take on vivid color, one patterned in brilliant red and silver, the other green and gold.—One of them stirred—a flick of the tail, no more—then the other began to writhe, and untwine itself from around the wooden shaft. Aurian’s jaw dropped open. The Well of Souls had brought the Serpents of the High Magic to life!—One by one, the snakes wriggled loose and dropped away from the Staff, the red serpent still bearing the green crystal in its jaws. The Mage was left holding a plain stick of lifeless wood, that slid from the water so easily that she almost overbalanced. The stone that held the Staff’s powers was lost to her, held by the serpent that had swum, with its mate, far out in the center of the pool, where she could not reach it. Side by side, the snakes reared up their heads and defied her, their cold gazes sharp with a mocking glitter. Clearly, this was another test—if the Mage could not take back the stone, she would have lost the Staff for good.
So aghast was Aurian that she almost missed the other threat. But some instinctive sense of warning drew her eyes away from the living serpents, and down into the pool toward the vision of her nemesis. Eliseth, ignoring the puzzled stares of the two Skyfolk, was staring into the grail, her silver eyes ablaze with rage and hatred. “Aurian,” she said, her voice hard and intense with loathing. “So, you have returned at last. But you’ve returned too late!”
Aurian gasped. The Staff! It had reached out through the medium of the Well to touch its fellow-Artifact. And seemingly, the water in the chalice was showing Eliseth as clear a picture of her foe as the Mage was seeing in the pool Between the Worlds. Inwardly, Aurian groaned. Right now, when she must focus her wits and her will on the recovery and restoration of the Staff, this was one distraction she could well have done without. She looked at Eliseth, her gaze like ice and whetted steel. “Too late, perhaps, to prevent your mischief,” she said in biting tones, “but not too late to put an end to it!”
Eliseth threw back her head and laughed. “It will take more than your empty bragging to do that, but feel very welcome to try! The first day we met I punished you for defying me, and I look forward to doing it again—I have been waiting to crush you for a long age now.” Her eyes flashed. “Your day is done, Aurian—you are too soft of heart to prevail. Your pitiful, pathetic attachments to the Mortals will weaken and betray you for the last time, if you dare encounter me!” Quick as a whiplash, Eliseth made a stabbing gesture at the grail she held—and suddenly the Mage’s vision of her enemy vanished as a film of ice streaked across the surface of the Well of Souls, solidifying rapidly from the center toward the brink.
As ice began to form around them the serpents streaked toward the pool’s edge, a hairbreadth ahead of the lethal crust that was congealing around them, threatening to trap their bodies in a cold, crystalline tomb. Thinking quickly, Aurian stretched out her arms to the threatened creatures, as far as she could reach. The intense chill rising from the surface of the Well burned her hands with a cruel, bone-deep ache, yet she held firm until the threatened creatures could reach her.
Rearing from the pool, the serpents reached toward her, but the Mage drew back slightly—just out of their reach. “First, give me the stone,” she ordered sternly. With a savage hiss, the red snake dropped the precious crystal into the palm of her outstretched hand. As Aurian extended her arms again, each serpent fastened its coils around one of her wrists and she leapt to her feet, lifting them out of danger. The power of the Staff enveloped her, running into her from the crystal in her hand. A surge of even greater power came from the Serpents of the High Magic, in a surge of ecstatic elation that nearly knocked her off her feet as she raised her snake-twined arms above her head, crying aloud in joy and triumph.
The serpents hissed in warning. Aurian spun. Behind her the towering figure of Death stood over Anvar, who was doubled over on the ground in agony, his mouth distorted in a silent scream. “A soul in torment,” the Specter hissed. “An unpleasant sight, is it not?”
A cold, sick feeling of dread washed over Aurian. Slowly, she lowered her arms. “Let him go,” she said evenly. “Your quarrel is not with Anvar.”
“You are wrong. My quarrel is with the two of you. I am done with humoring you and your recalcitrant paramours, Mage. You will go into the well. Both of you.—Now.”
Aurian stooped to pick up the inanimate shaft of the Staff of Earth. Though it would be no defense whatsoever against Death, it made her feel better to have some kind of weapon in her hand. “If you do this, you will lose the Serpents of the High Magic,” Aurian threatened, desperate enough to clutch at any straw. “I have claimed them, they have come to me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me taking them back with me to my own world.”
“You will do as you must—it changes nothing. You will return to your own body, from whence you came. Anvar will be reborn.” Death shrugged. “Say your farewells to one another. It may be long indeed ere you meet again on any world.” So saying, the Specter seized hold of Anvar and lifted him to his feet with one hand. A single shove sent him staggering to the brink of the Well of Souls. “Aurian . . .” he shouted despairingly, and flung out an arm toward her as he fell.
“No!” Aurian cried. Even as Anvar plunged into the water she dived forward and caught hold of his outstretched hand. Then the waters closed over Aurian’s head as the two Mages fell together, whirling down and down into starry infinity.
19
The Sunrise Hawk
Finally, Forral abandoned the idea of ever getting to sleep that night. With a bitter sigh he got out of his lonely bed, lit the lamp, and poured himself a cup of wine. It had been a long, long night. Though these underground caverns tended to baffle his instinctive sense of time, he was sure it must be nearing dawn by now. Pulling a blanket around his shoulders, the swordsman drew his chair close to the stove in the corner and stuffed a log from the basket into its maw, huddling over the embers until the fresh wood had time to catch.—Cradling the cup in his hands, he sipped abstractedly at the drink and struggled with his disappointment. He told himself that he’d been a colossal fool to count on Aurian joining him tonight, but when something meant so much to a man, how could he help but hope?
With a sigh, Forral poured another cup of wine. Though Aurian had told him why she was reluctant to let him come any closer to her, it was difficult for the swordsman to understand. She’d said that it was hard for her to adjust to the mind and personality of one love within the outward form of the other, but considering what they had been to one another, surely she ought to have welcomed him with open arms? Forral, who was finding it easier and easier to forget that he was not occupying his own true form, was hurt and frustrated by her attitude.
“You’ve only been back a few days,” he told himself. “Give the poor lass time—she’ll come around. . . .” But would she? Well did he remember Aurian’s stubbornness of old! No, even if it was the middle of the night, it would probably be better for them to have the whole business out, right here and now where they were safe and private. With sudden decision, he drained the cup, and went off in search of the Mage.