Maggie Furey - Aurian

“Well, what do you think?” Eliseth’s voice dissolved his fantasy. “Not that there’s any point in asking you,” she said with a sneer, settling herself in a chair near the fire, a glass of white wine in her hand.

“What a shame you’ve no one else to ask,” Bragar retorted,

le to resist needling her about Davorshan’s death. He had satisfaction of seeing her face twist with rage. “What can I say?” he replied to her question. “Miath’an’s brains have clearly been addled by Aurian’s attack. How could she not have perished?”

Eliseth frowned. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “Remember how close Aurian and the Archmage used to be? He should know whether she’s dead, if anyone does.”

“Rubbish! The old fool is senile, and you know it. We should put him out of his misery, and take power ourselves!’

“Bragar, you’ve the brains of an ox!” Eliseth snapped. “We need the Archmage as a figurehead! He made sure of that when he spread the tale that it was his power that destroyed the Nihilim! We were able to bribe that toad Narvish onto the Council as the merchants’ representative, and Angos at the Garrison is nothing but a thickheaded mercenary who will do whatever we say for a price, but they won’t last long if Miathan is not seen to be behind them! It is only the Mortals’ fear of his power, and what will happen if he withdraws it, that keeps the city in our hands.’”

“If he’s only a figurehead, why do we have to jump whenever he snaps his fingers?” Bragar sulked.

Eliseth took a sip of wine. “As a rule we don’t—but if there is a chance that Aurian survived, we cannot risk her returning. Miathan may want her alive, but I do not! I’ve been giving it some thought. We know she was at sea, and I know the strength and direction of the storm I raised. If she is anywhere, it has to be the Southern Lands.”

“The South? But even if we had the people, we could not send a force in sufficient numbers to find her,”

Bragar protested. “The Southerners would take it as an invasion, and a war is the last thing we need at present. Besides, they’re supposed to be hostile to the Magefolk. If that’s where Aurian is, the problem will take care of itself.”

“Why rely on it, when we have other means at our disposal?” Eliseth glanced at him slyly.

Bragar knew she wanted him to ask what she meant, so she could accuse him of stupidity again. Refusing to play her game, he gulped the contents of his glass and went to refill it. “You always did have a high opinion of yourself,” he said, sneering.

“How dare you!” Eliseth rose to the bait. “I’m the only Weather-Mage in the world! If I deal with them, the Southerners will be lucky to havejapy survivors, let alone that redheaded bitch! I’ve seen the maps,” she went on more calmly. “The Southern Lands have huge mountain ranges and vast deserts, and even jungle, if you go far enough south. With topography like that, it’s easy to produce violent weather. A sandstorm in the right place, or unseasonal blizzards in the mountains, could solve our problem. It would also soften up the Southern races for conquest,” she added persuasively.

“Eliseth, you can’t!” The bottle jerked in Bragar’s hands, splashing brandy on the white tiled floor. “You’ll alter the weather everywhere! It could take centuries to restore the balance!”

Eliseth shrugged. “So what? Who cares if we lose a few thousand Mortals to storms or famine? With their numbers reduced, they’ll be easier to control. We need not suffer, now we know Finbarr’s preserving spell. We’ll have Elewin stockpile food in the catacombs, and keep it indefinitely. It’s not as though we had many mouths to feed nowadays.”

Gods, she was ruthless! Bragar was both impressed and appalled. Once he had been the instigator of their plots, but now that it was time to act instead of talk, he was finding himself increasingly out of his depth. It was one thing to talk about Negative Magic, but having to deal with those things from the Caldron had jarred his confidence badly. Bragar gulped his drink, remembering the horror of the Wraiths, How could Eliseth be so composed? Her slender form looked delicate and brittle as a spear of ice, yet she throve on situations that turned his blood to water. His vision of her, submissive and conquered, evaporated. He was losing this game; he knew it now. His one hope lay in going along with her—and waiting for her to overreach herself. Then, at last, it would be his turn.

Bragar decided on a change of tactics. “Maybe you’re right—” He cut the words off, alerted by a warning prickle at the base of his neck, by the merest hint of a sound outside. Overturning his chair, he shot across the room and flung the door open.

“Bragar, what are you doing?”

The Fire-Mage peered at the empty stairway, then closed the door, shaking his head in puzzlement. “I thought , , .”

Elewin, pressed flat to the wall round the curve of the staircase, let out the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. That had been close! For a moment he considered returning, but there was no sense in taking risks. He had heard enough, and the information must be passed on. He hurried downstairs and let himself out of the Tower.

Gods! Would spring never come? This accursed winter was lingering forever. After several hours within Miathan’s warm chambers, Elewin shivered in the bitmgly cold air. A new sprinkling of snow had fallen while he’d been tending the Archmage, but the night skies were clear now, and the temperature had dropped sharply. The snow, frozen to a hard, brittle crust, crunched loudly beneath his boots as he crossed the courtyard, and Elewhrgianced nervously up at the lighted window of Eliseth’s room. If they should hear him, and look out . . . He’d never be able to explain why he was going to the library, especially at this time of night. Miathan had no need of books nowadays, he thought wryly.

Since Finbarr’s death, the library had lain dark and empty. The preserving spells, which required frequent renewing, were already decaying, and as Elewin pushed open the heavy door he heard a rustling patter like wind-blown leaves as mice and cockroaches scattered for cover. The Steward shook his head sadly. Finbarr would have been appalled. The irreplaceable knowledge of centuries, which he had tended with such care and skill, ending up as rat’s nests! I must get someone to see to this, Elewin thought, hating the notion of Finbarr’s precious volumes moldering beneath a shroud of cobwebs and dust. It was disrespectful to the Archivist’s memory to let his life’s work go to ruin—but in truth, there was no one to tend them, Most of the servartts had fled in terror on the Night of Death, as people in the city called it, and few were willing now to come near the Academy. Elewin was hard-pressed to maintain the basic necessities, let alone spare a servant to dust books.

Not daring to venture a light, the Steward groped his way across the long, musty room, cursing as he bruised himself on the corner of a table, and fell over a displaced chair. If only there had been a moon, to cast some light through the tall windows. If only he had Mages’ sight! At last he reached the farther end, recognizing Jtjy feel the recessed door that led down into the catacombs. Smiling in the darkness, he slipped an intricate key from his pocket. Eliseth and Bragar thought all the keys to the archives were safe in their keeping, and it was small wonder they wanted no one in the catacombs, considering what they had stored down there! But they did not know that Finbarr had given Anvar his own key. Elewin had found it among his scanty belongings, after he fled. Entering the archives, the Steward carefully locked the door again behind him.

The walls of the corridor were icy to the touch, and Elewin had trouble lighting the lantern. The flint kept slipping from his frozen fingers, forcing him to kneel and grope on the floor, cursing. How things had changed! Once he had thrashed any servant caught swearing in the Academy! But that was before he’d become a spy and a traitor to the Magefolk. Their changes had forced the change in him.