Chiamh glanced over the Mage’s shoulder at the inconspicuous grey shape that was hanging shyly back in a shadowy comer. “Come with me,” he told her. “I have someone here who very much wants to meet you.”
For an instant her heart stopped beating. “Wolf?” she whispered. “Wolf?”
Then the thoughts of the great grey beast in the corner came to her, clear and strong. “Mother?”
The Mage wanted to run to her son and throw her arms around him, but something—a trace of reticence or doubt in his mental tone—made her hesitate.—She was glad that mental communication, at least, gave them a certain amount of privacy in the crowded room. “Wolf, I can’t believe you’re here at last,” she told him. “I’ve waited a long time for this moment. There’s so much . ..”
“I don’t remember you.” The wolf looked at her coldly. “And I don’t want to be here. My grandmother said I had to come.”
Sick dismay clenched like a fist in Aurian’s belly. Everyone else in the room was oblivious of the exchange that had just taken place, and she fought hard to keep the hurt from showing on her face.
“Give him time, Aurian.” It was Chiamh’s voice. “This is all very strange to him. You two will have to get to know one another all over again.”
Thank the Gods for the wisdom and kindness of Chiamh—he was a true friend. And he was right, of course.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” the Mage told Wolf seriously. “It’s always a wrench to leave home—especially for the first time.”
“You seem to be good at it. You left me.”
The wolf fled the room, running into Forral with a snarl as he shot through the door, and knocking the swordsman right off his feet. “What the bloody blazes was that all about?” the swordsman demanded as he scrambled up from the floor.
“That unmannerly creature,” said Aurian, with a wry grimace, “was your son.”
Forral gaped at her, absolutely stunned. Then he cast his eyes heavenward.
“Great Chathak preserve us,” he muttered. “How do you spank a wolf?”
Chiamh stared at the familiar form of Aurian’s companion. There was something about the figure . . . Quickly he switched to his Othersight—and discovered that the refulgent aura of the man’s life force had changed completely from the one he remembered. The Windeye was too shocked for tact. “That’s not Anvar,” he gasped.
Schiannath looked at him oddly. “What are you talking about, Chiamh? You hardly give yourself time to draw breath in human form, before you’re starting with that weird Wind-eye nonsense again. Of course it’s Anvar! Anyone can see that.”
The swordsman looked Schiannath straight in the eye. “No, he’s right,” he said baldly. “I’m not Anvar. My name is Forral.”
Oh, thank you, Forral. Thanks for breaking it to them gently—you idiot! Aurian hid her face in her hands and let the storm break over her.
Gevan was weary from sailing all night, but the tides and currents had been in his favor, and a strong, steady wind had blown him fair to Easthaven in less time than he’d expected. As he sailed into the harbor, the smuggler rubbed a hand across his hot and bleary eyes, and smiled grimly to himself. It had almost seemed as though the Gods themselves had been in favor of his plan. He would show them—that serpent-tongued Mage-loving little bitch who fancied herself the true Nightrunner leader, and her man, who had pushed him around once two often—with the support of that weak-minded fool Yanis, who just let them get away with it. He was no leader—not like his dad had been!—The smuggler moored his swift little craft among the fishing boats that were being unloaded of the night’s catch, and climbed up onto the busy wharf. As he hurried along, he jingled the coins in his pocket. He had enough in here to buy himself a good meal and a swift horse—and once he reached Nexis and spoke to Lord Pendral, he would never want for wealth again.
22
The Old Magic
The same nightmare repeats itself, again and again. Vannor turns restlessly and awakens with a hoarse cry of dismay. The horns and cries are loud now. The Phaerie have come to Nexis to extract their vengeance. He runs to the window.—In the city, the warning bell of the Garrison has begun to ring, alerting him to the city’s peril.
He hears a tumult of voices from downstairs, where the household staff are beginning to panic. Through the window he sees them running outside to witness the spectacle. “Get inside,” he bellows. “Get into the house, you fools—and stay there.” Snatching up his sword, he runs downstairs, glad that Dulsina has left him. With the Nightrunners she’ll be safe.
As Vannor watches, the Phaerie sweep down on the city. The exultant horns take on a deeper, more menacing note. Light leaps from the Mages’ Tower as the Immortals ride past, and spreads down through the Academy complex. Similar patches of effulgence spread rapidly through the city, wherever the Phaerie touch down—then hungry flames leap up, and the shrilling of the horns is drowned by screams.
Vannor runs through burning streets, his boots slithering on blood and entrails. He sees a man cut in two by a Phaerie sword, his guts spilling out across the cobbles. A child with a rag doll weeps over the headless body of her mother. A lad runs from a burning house, trailing streamers of flame, and falls to the ground, engulfed in a ball of fire. A woman shrieks as her children are snatched away, screaming, by a Phaerie woman with burning sapphire eyes. Scenes of torture, torment, and slaughter enacted over and over again, while Phaerie stalk the streets, cold-eyed and terrible . ..—Out of nowhere, a sword swings down in a glittering arc, and the blue-eyed Phaerie woman crumples to the ground, golden blood pouring from a deep rent in her flesh. The children, released, run back to their mother, who receives them with a cry of joy. The tatt wielder of the sword, whose identity is hidden in a shimmering haze, swirls a heavy cloak from its shoulders and covers the burning man, smothering the flames. The youth springs up from beneath the cloak, restored and healed.
The mysterious warrior calls to Vannor. “Come with me, and fight them. Fight the bastards, Vannor. Fight your way free!”
And Vannor remembers the sword in his hand, and his limp grasp tightens round the hilt. At the side of his unknown redeemer he scours the streets of his city, helping folk wherever he can, while the Phaerie fall to his sword like wheat before a scythe.
And at last he fights his way out of the city and stands on the high northern road that leads out across the clean, untainted moors. The cool, fresh wind scours the stench of blood and smoke from the air. The numinous stranger turns. The concealing cloak of mist dissolves away, and he sees the face of Aurian. She holds out a hand to him. “You’re free, now, Vannor. Free to return. Come back with me, my friend, come back ...”
Slowly, Vannor reaches out and takes the hand .. .
. . . And the high moors swirled away, and he found himself lying on a bed, in a cavern, with no memory of how he had come to be there. Everything was strange—except the face, the same, familiar face of the Mage, looking down on him kindly and holding his hand tightly in her strong, callused grasp, as if to anchor him in life.
Aurian smiled at him. “Welcome back,” she said.
“Welcome back, Vannor,” Eliseth snarled, “and about time, too.” In truth, however, she was not displeased, for the last three days of constant vigilance—three miserable days spent peering into the dark, dead depths of the grail until her head and eyes ached, had finally paid off. She looked at the image in the grail with narrowed eyes. Really, it was laughable. Dear, good little Aurian had kindly brought the former High Lord back to his senses—and so created her own undoing. Now, at last, Eliseth had a spy and an agent in close proximity to the Mage.