When the Mage and the Nightrunners finally dared to creep out, they found the complex utterly deserted—save for the bodies. The smugglers wept and cursed as they recognized friends and loved ones—but far more numerous were the sprawled corpses of the foe. Most had died without a mark on them, save that their faces were twisted into expressions of stark terror and dread. The Wraith had fed well tonight, D’arvan thought grimly.
Feverishly, the Mage and Hargorn searched through the scattered corpses, sick to their stomachs but determined to see the dreadful business through. It was many grim and weary hours before they could comfort themselves with the knowledge that their friends must have escaped the carnage, though the veteran had wept to discover Dulsina and Emmie, lying together by the water’s edge.—For D’arvan, the worst discovery was the corpse of Finbarr, which was lying on the bed in the chamber where the Wraith had discarded it like an old cloak.—Without his eldritch tenant to animate his body, the Archivist had finally relinquished his tenuous hold on life. D’arvan sat for a time, holding his old friend’s cold hand, appalled by the waste. We came so close, he thought. So close to restoring him. He was one of the best of the Magefolk. His tears fell on Finbarr’s cold and lifeless hand.
After a time, Hargorn entered. He was clearly full of questions but waited quietly by the door, out of respect for D’arvan’s grief. The Mage rose and straightened, his expression stern and unyielding. “We’ll deal with the dead now, then you can take the few surviving Nightrunners to the Vale for the present,” he said. “It won’t be the first time the lady Eilin has harbored refugees. As for me—I intend to make that sniveling Mortal the so-called Lord Pendral rue this day’s work.”
“Now, just a minute—you can’t just...”
The silver flame of wrath flashed in D’arvan’s eyes. “Can I not, indeed?” he said grimly. “Can you honestly say, Hargorn, that the mortals of Nexis would not be better off under my rule?” His lips thinned into a glacial smile. “No, for once it will be a positive pleasure to do my father’s bidding.”
The Mage was not the only one whose plans involved a return to Nexis. Already, the Death-Wraith was hurtling like a black comet through the starless night, making its way back by the straightest route toward the city. Over the last days, it had been raking through Finbarr’s mind and memory for the means of negating the time spell—and now, fed to repletion with the lives of so many Mortals, it was certain it had both the power and the means to free its fellows at last. Before much longer, the Nihilim would be loosed once more upon an unsuspecting world.
The Mage emerged from an exhausted daze to find Grince shaking her shoulder.
“Here, lady—let me take over, tt must be my turn by now.”
Aurian straightened her aching shoulders, unlocked her hands from around the oars. It felt good to stop rowing. She was surprised to find that her palms were stinging and beginning to blister, while the land was already a good distance away: a blacker line against the darkness of the starless night sky.—We did it, she thought with dull amazement. We actually got away. The Mage held the dripping oars steady until Grince moved onto the thwart beside her and took them from her. Then she slid down into the well of the boat, letting herself slump wearily against the wooden side.
“Mother? Are you all right?” The mental voice was tentative and scared. Aurian felt a cold nose against her arm. She opened her eyes and looked around to see Wolf. He looked at her, then looked away, hanging his head. “You were very brave,” he said in a small voice. “I thought you didn’t care about me—but I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
An immense weight was suddenly lifted from Aurian’s heart. “Yes, you were wrong,” she told him softly, “but I was gone for so long that I don’t blame you for thinking as you did. I would have thought the same thing myself.” She put her arms around the wolf’s shaggy neck. “Poor Wolf. I haven’t been much of a mother to you so far, have I? When this is all over, I hope I’ll have a chance to put that right.”
“Do—do you think you’ll be able to take off the curse?”
Though he was trying to hide how very much it meant to him, Aurian could detect the desperation behind his words. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to lie to him—she owed him more than that. “I don’t know for sure,” she told him.
“But believe me, we’re going to have a bloody good try.”
The wolf signed and laid his head on her shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” Aurian asked him anxiously.
“No—well, some bruises, that’s all. Most of the blood belonged to the man who hurt Valand.” Aurian heard grim satisfaction in Wolf’s voice, and hugged him hard. “That’s my son,” she said proudly.
The Mage sat quietly with Wolf until he fell asleep in the bows, and husbanded her own strength against the ordeal to come. Chiamh still lay in the bottom of the boat, cocooned in the blue matrix of the time spell, and she dreaded what she would find when she removed it. In her heart, she knew there was no way that she—or anyone else, for that matter—could heal such dreadful wounds.—She could feel the hard outline of the Harp of Winds strapped to her back, and wished that it possessed healing magic. If only the Staff of Earth had its power back, she thought, her hand closing around the Artifact that hung lifeless at her belt. At least it might give me the chance to do something!—But perhaps this was the penalty for misusing it, she thought. If so, then her rash slaughter of the soldiers beneath the Academy had earned her a far worse punishment than she could ever have imagined.
Her anguish must have been clear on her face, for Grince reached out and gently touched her arm. “Will he die?” he asked softly.
Aurian nodded, and swallowed hard to find her voice. “Yes. I think he will,”
The Windeye’s blood-spattered face, already corpse-pale beneath the vivid blue time spell, dissolved in the shimmer of tears. Aurian recalled their first meeting, in that sordid chamber in the Tower of Incondor that had been her prison for so long. Chiamh had been the only other person to see that Wolf was truly human—and he had taken her riding the winds that very night, all the way to Aerillia. She thought of the day, back at the Xandim fastness, when he had shown her his lonely home at the Place of Winds, and trusted her enough to change into his horse-form and let her ride upon his back. She remembered saving his life with a magical shield, when the Xandim rebelled against Parric as Herdlord, and had almost stoned their Windeye to death.
Well—might as well get it over with. She could only do her best. Gods, she prayed, let me be able to help him. Don’t let Chiamh suffer for my mistakes.—Aurian took a deep breath, summoned her powers—and dissolved the spell.—Chiamh sprang up like an uncoiling snake and knocked the Mage back against the stern of the violently rocking boat, pinioning her arms to her sides. “Don’t!—Don’t do anything! I’m all right! I’m all right!”
Aurian stared at him. The terrible wounds had gone. The bloodstains and gaping rents had simply vanished from both his skin and his clothing, and the deathly pallor and spattered blood had disappeared from his face. After several minutes, the Mage closed her mouth. Speech, however, continued to evade her.—Suddenly, she felt unstrung with relief. To her dismay she felt a single tear spill over and go streaking down her face, and bit the inside of her lip hard to prevent any more from following.