Aurian sighed. For some reason that she would not disclose, Shia had taken a marked dislike to Forral, and refused to even name him. “Forral is talking to Parric and Hargorn,” she told the cat with a smile. “There seems to be some kind of warriors’ reunion going on, so I hope that Emmie has plenty of drink on hand.”
“Humans and their drink! We waste time here,” Shia grumbled.
“You’re right, I know.” Aurian flopped down into a chair. “We’ll be going soon
—I must start arranging . . .” She was interrupted by a knock at the door.—She signed. “Who is it?”
“It is I—Finbarr.”
Aurian was all too aware that it was not the archivist who spoke, but the Wraith who shared his form. “Now what?” she muttered sourly under her breath, though it struck her that she was being somewhat unjust. Ever since his arrival, the wraith had remained solitary and apart from the Nightrunners, in order to escape both suspicion and alarm. Only Zanna and Tarnal were aware of the creature’s true identity—and it said a great deal for their trust in Aurian that they allowed the entity to stay.
As the tall, gangling figure walked into the room, Aurian had to remind herself sharply that some ghastly, inhuman creature controlled this body in place of her old friend. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“We have—a difficulty.” The grating, emotionless voice sent a chill through the Mage. “Now you have removed the spell that took me out of time,” the creature continued, “I must feed—but if I quit this body, my host will perish.—Once more I need your help, Mage. When I leave this form you must take it out of time once more, and restore it only when I wish to return.”
For a moment, Aurian had difficulty finding her voice. “Let me get this straight,” she said quietly. “When you say feed, do you mean you need to take a human life?”
The expressionless figure nodded. “As you say.”
“But you can’t do that!” the Mage burst out. “These folk are our friends. They have given us shelter—they trust us. I can’t just let you go and kill one of them!”
“You have no choice.” The Wraith regarded her impassively, its utter lack of emotion shocking on Finbarr’s face. “My instinct for survival is as great as that of any other being—I will feed with or without your help. If you will not assist me in the preservation of this body, I will simply return to my old shape for good, and abandon this carapace to die.”
Aurian sank down into the chair. “How much longer can you last?” she whispered. “How soon before you need to feed?”
“I can last perhaps two or three days more—then I must feed or perish.”
“I must have gone mad,” Vannor said, in a voice that was heavy with shame. He looked at his daughter, and then at the woman he loved. “There’s no other explanation for the way I was acting. How could I have driven you away from me, Dulsina? I would rather cut off my other hand!”
Dulsina shook her head. “At the time it was like a dreadful nightmare—like living with a total stranger—but it’s over now, love, at any rate. I’m only too glad to have you back again, and acting like yourself. This last year has been the loneliest of my life. You know, I was so angry when I left you—I told myself I never wanted to set eyes on you again.” She shrugged. “It didn’t take too long before I discovered my mistake.”
“I’m glad to be back too—but it doesn’t explain or excuse my actions. What happened to me, Dulsina? Why in Creation would I want to order an attack on the Phaerie? The whole idea is insane! I must have lost my mind completely—had a fit or a seizure or something—I don’t recall.” He rubbed his one hand across his face. “Can you believe it?” he whispered, the words coming muffled from between his fingers. “I actually ordered all those men and woman to their deaths—and I can’t even remember! What kind of monster am I?”
Zanna laid a hand on her father’s shoulder. “What’s the point in torturing yourself like this? It won’t do you any good, nor will it bring those people back. Besides, I agree with you—had you been in your right mind you would never have acted like that. It must have been the poison that affected you—the Gods only know how you survived it at all. . . .” Her words trailed off into silence as she remembered her earlier conversation with Aurian.
“Dad . . .” she began hesitantly. How in the name of the Gods could she suggest that he might have been under the influence of Eliseth without putting ideas into his head—either that or alarming him so badly that he never dared make a move again? Or worse still, she thought with a shiver, actually alerting Eliseth in some way to the fact that they knew what she had done?
“Can you remember anything about the time you were poisoned?” Zanna plunged on recklessly. “When you were actually ill, I mean? Did you have any strange dreams, or visions? And what about the old woman who saved your life? What did she do to you? Have you any recollection of her at all?”
Vannor shook his head and sighed. “I think I had some weird kind of dream about Forral, that I can scarcely recall, but apart from that, I don’t remember anything about the entire episode, love. Not a bloody thing ...”
“Never mind, Dad—it doesn’t matter,” Zanna assured him—but even as she spoke the words, a shiver went through her. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it would matter—very much indeed.
Aurian sat in her darkened chamber and studied the faint and feeble glow that emanated from the crystal at the head of the Staff of Earth. This isn’t right, she thought despairingly. Where has the power gone? What can have happened, Between the Worlds? The corporeal Staff that had been left in the mundane world with Aurian’s body appeared to have come out of the entire episode unchanged—but the ethereal manifestation, the core of the Artifact’s power, had been virtually destroyed in the Well of Souls. Indeed, had Aurian not been able to rescue the serpents and the crystal, she had a very bad feeling that she would have had no Staff to come back to on her return. Even as matters stood, she was in serious trouble.
Wondering what she could do to restore the power, Aurian cradled the Artifact in her lap. It felt like watching over an ailing friend. Normally, when she touched the Staff a glorious surge of vibrant energy went coursing through her. Its power had a distinctive feel to it, for, like the Harp of Winds, the Staff had an intelligence and a character all its own. Now, as she held it, she could barely feel a tingle, and she could feel no more personality than was present in any other dead stick.
The Harp! Now there was an idea. Perhaps the power of its fellow-Artifact could revive the Staff of Earth. Aurian ran to fetch it. As always, the Harp thrummed discordantly when she picked it up, and the Mage found it difficult to hold, as though it was constantly trying to writhe out of her grasp. As she touched the crystalline frame, an image of Anvar leapt into her mind; so vivid that she felt she could touch him. The Harp gave a shimmering sigh, and a cascade of notes, each one visible as a falling star, swirled away from it.
“Anvar,” it sang, over and over. “Anvar . ..”
Aurian sighed. “I know,” she told it. “I miss him too. But we’ll both have to do without him for the time being, and if you want him back, you had better cooperate with me.”
The Mage’s words cut harshly across the liquid fall of light that was the Harp’s song, and abruptly, the Artifact fell silent. After a moment, the frame ceased to feel slippery in her hands, and a tentative tingle of energy leaked into her fingers and ran through her arms. In her thoughts, Aurian sent out a wave of gratitude toward the Artefact, and felt it thrum in response.—Carefully, she laid it down on her bed, beside the Staff of Earth. “Can you tell me why the Staff has lost its power?” she asked the Harp of Winds, “and what I may do-to heal it?”
In the darkened room, the crystal frame of the Harp began to glow with a soft incandescence that expanded and reached out to embrace the dormant Staff, outlining the twisting shapes of the serpents in a nebulous luster. At first, Aurian thought the misty luminescence was playing tricks with her eyes. As she watched, the serpents, still holding the dull crystal, lifted their heads from the Staff to watch her with coldly glittering eyes. In the ghostly radiance of the Harp, their colors looked flat and faded; no longer the brilliant red-and-silver and the vivid gold-and-green that she recalled.