Death hissed a chilling curse. Turning to Forral, he beckoned the warrior with a snarl. “Defiant as always,” he muttered. “She was your love, swordsman—you take her! Do this, and she will be yours for all eternity.”
Forral looked sadly at the Specter and shook his head. “Not now—not like this. Not unless she wants me.”
“Of course I want you, you great fool!” Aurian took refuge in sharpness to keep back her tears. “But remember what you once told me, about living my life out in the mundane world? And what about our child?” Though guilt smote Aurian—a physical force in this unearthly world, like a spear through her heart—she forced herself to continue. “I love Wolf, too,” she said softly. “And I must get back now, to save him. He is all that remains of you and me.”
Forral smiled sadly. “Not all,” he told her. “Never believe that. But he is a child—lost, threatened, and afraid. If I could protect him, and you, I would—but I can’t. You’re right, love. You should go back.”
“Can I?”
Forral forced a smile, and the Mage understood the measure of the great man’s courage. “I always said you could do anything you wanted to,” he told her, and turned back to the looming figure of Death. “You heard the Lady. If you want her, you can bloody well get her yourself.”
There it was—that same old flashing, unquenchable grin that Aurian had always loved. She grinned back at him, sharing one last instant of communion—then tore herself away and went spiraling back down toward her body. She had almost reached it when, to her horror, she felt her momentum slow. Death was pulling her back—back into the mist.
“It is not for you—either of you—to decide.” The Specter’s voice was implacable, like the slamming of the lid on a tomb. “Your time is over, Aurian. You must pass Beyond…”
“You can do nothing to force me.” The Mage was sure of it now. “I must go back to Anvar, fight the Archmage, and, especially, save my child.”
“Can I not?” Death hissed. Again, Aurian’s soul was torn by the grasp of icy claws. The Specter’s voice grated: “You may possess the Staff, O Mage—but one thing you have forgotten. We made a bargain once, and you still owe me a life. That debt must be repaid…” The words ended in a startled shriek as, once more, the Mage felt herself released.
“Wizard, go back to your body.” The voice had no business here—it was alien—this was none of its concern! In the limbo that enfolded her, Aurian felt fear, and found herself reaching for a nonexistent sword hilt.
Death seemed equally startled. “This is not your business!” he snarled.
“True, it is no business of mine—except that I can see what is important and what is not,” the voice retorted. “This is no time for you to reclaim your debt, O Gray One—and well you know it. Your concerns may differ from those of the Living, but your greed for this one bright soul would prove to be all our undoing. It cannot be permitted at this time. Why must you take her now? Sooner or later she must come to you in any case.”
In the shadows of her consciousness, Aurian could see a massive shape—unspeakably old, powerful beyond all imagining—and utterly alien—hovering between herself and the Reaper of Souls. For a terrifying instant Death seemed to hesitate; then: “Very well,” he snarled. “I will spare her—for now.” The grim Specter vanished, leaving Aurian alone in the void with the alien Presence.
“I am Basileus,” the shadow said. “I am the body and soul of this fastness. I will speak with you later—but now you must return. Flee, little Wizard, toward the one you love. He will help you!”
What, back to Forral? For an instant, Aurian was confused—then all became clear to her. “Anvar!” she cried joyously, and arrowed her spirit toward his seeking mind, searching, searching for him in the gray nothingness of Beyond. And suddenly, to her joyful astonishment, a brilliant green light shone before her: a clear and powerful beacon to guide her through the veils that kept her from her love.
“Damn it, I’m losing her!” Anvar cried in anguish. Aurian’s face was gray-white. Blood and froth bubbled horribly from her wound with every gasping, shallow breath she tried to take. Her heart was faltering and stumbling like a runner at the very end of a race, and only his stubborn will—and that of Aurian, perhaps—was keeping it going at all.
As if through a haze, he became aware of someone at his shoulder—Chiamh.
“I’ll look for the child later,” the Windeye said. “Now, you need me here.” His eyes still silver with Othersight, he bent over Aurian’s still form, his hands moving, knotting, molding the air above her. “This is bad,” he muttered. “I can keep her breathing a little while, but—” He looked up at Anvar, his silver gaze sharp and piercing. “Do you go forth and seek her with your mind, beyond the Veil,” he commanded. “Use her Staff, that once you carved and that she imbued with power. It may link you. I—I will get us some help, if I can.” So saying, he sank down, head bowed, deep in trance. Even as Anvar reached across to find the Staff among Aurian’s scattered belongings, he heard the Windeye whisper a single word: “Basileus.”
Anvar clasped Aurian’s cold, limp hands around the Staff and held them there with his own. He poured forth his mind, his will, and his love into the Artifact—and his spirit went forth into the void, seeking the one he loved with all his heart.
And he found her. Already she was coming to him, hurtling back toward the light of the Staff, streaming tatters of gray. Her wraithlike form was hideously maimed, as though she had been scored again and again by the grip of giant talons. Anvar shrieked her name—felt his own name, cried in Aurian’s voice, reverberate in his mind, harsh with terror and anguish. He held her tightly, and she clung to him as the emerald glow of the Staff fell about them like a benison.
There was no time for their reunion now; no time for love or fear. “Aurian,” he told her urgently, “I need your help. Your Healing is beyond me—I still lack the skill. You must come back now and join with me in the power of the Staff as we did in the desert. Give me your Healing powers, so that I can help you.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Is that possible?” she breathed. Then he saw her jaw tighten. “It had bloody well better be,” she muttered. The world spun, and—
Anvar was back within his mundane form, kneeling over the Mage—but this time he felt her mind, in deep and intimate linkage with his own. He shared her shock as she perceived the damage that Meiriel’s treacherous knife had done to her chest—and felt his own heart miss a beat—for until that moment he had not known the identity of Aurian’s assailant. But there was no time to think of that now.
“We’d better hurry,” Aurian whispered. “I didn’t realize there would be so much to do.”
Without the Staff of Earth they would never have managed it. Without Aurian’s skills, which had been taught her by the very one who had tried to take her life, the Mage would not have stood a chance. Anvar, trusting, simply gave his power into Aurian’s hands, and his hands into her will, and let her do what she would with the fusion of his strength and her knowledge. And after a dreadful, bloody, exhausting age spent rebuilding sliced muscle and damaged tissue, Anvar felt her mind slip free from his own. For an instant he felt the clutch of panic round his heart—then Aurian opened her eyes. “Oh, how I love you,” she whispered. “You did good work, my partner in Healing—and in all things.”