Maggie Furey - Aurian

His bluntness struck Aurian as though he had returned her blow. Unable to deny his words, she could only return hurt for hurt. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” she retorted bitterly. “You want me for yourself—that’s all you care about! Well, I don’t love you, Anvar. I hate you! Whatever happens, I’ll never love you as long as I live!”

Aurian’s words reverberated in the shocked silence between them. Anvar flinched as though she had dealt him a mortal blow—then with a curse, he let go of her wrist, almost hurling her away from him. “Go then, if it’ll make you happy. Follow your precious Forral into death! Kill your child, if it means nothing to you! Run away from your responsibilities and abandon your friends!” He turned away as if in scorn, but Aurian saw his slumped and shaking shoulders, and knew that he was weeping. She looked yearningly at the beckoning shade of Forral, but his face was suddenly eclipsed by a vision of Anvar— the hurt in his blue eyes, the ugly mark on his face where she had struck him. Aurian suddenly knew that if she followed Forral into death, she would miss that face, and Anvar’s loving and loyal presence, beyond all bearing. But she loved Forral. To choose another over him would be an appalling betrayal!

Yet Aurian wavered, unable to take that last, crucial step. She knew that Anvar loved her, and if she went with Forral, he would go through the same anguish she had felt when the swordsman died. When she had saved Anvar’s life in the slave compound, their very souls had touched. He had clung to her hand then, as though she were his only anchor on life. Sara had already betrayed him—how could she do the same? Surely, after all they had been through together, she owed him more than that.

Tears flooded Aurian’s face. It felt as if she were tearing out her own heart, but she straightened her shoulders and faced the shade of Forral squarely. “I’m sorry!” she cried. “I can’t! I can’t come with you!” As her anguished cry tore the air, the spirit-shape flickered—and vanished.

Aurian sank down in the sand, undone by her grief—but only for a moment. She had no time now, to weep. Suddenly the Mage felt a new strength flooding into her, a sense of freedom and a new maturity. She had made her choice. Life over death—the future rather than the past—and whatever that future might hold, she was committed to it now. “Get up, you ass,” she told herself firmly. “Anvar needs you.”

Anvar had turned his back on Aurian, unable to watch her go to her own death. Though his vision was blurred with tears, he held firmly to the Staff, still using its power as a shield against Eliseth’s venom. He tried not to think of what was happening behind him, knowing that he needed to concentrate on his defense against the storm—but his heart betrayed him. In his mind’s eye, he saw how it would end. Aurian would penetrate his shield and walk out into the storm, embracing death in her foolish pursuit of a vanished dream. There would be nothing left of her. The sand would strip her to the bone . . .

The Mage fought to master his anguish, but his will was weakening. If Aurian hated him, what was the point of continuing the battle? It would be so easy just to throw the Staff away, to drop his shield and walk after her, following her beyond this last boundary, as he had followed her for so long . . . As he finally abandoned all hope, the Staff fell from Anvar’s fingers . . .

And was caught by a hand that seemed to come out of nowhere—a strong, capable hand, square-palmed, long-fingered, nicked with the old white scars of many battles. A hand that could bestow either death or healing . . .

Joy engulfed Anvar like a soundless explosion of light. Aurian’s face was tearstained and grim, haggard and haunted, but she faced him squarely, her chin lifted in that old determined gesture that he knew so well. Rejoicing, Anvar put his hand on hers, and ,felt an answering jolt of power as their wills combined with the might of the Staff.

“Now, we get the bitch!” Aurian’s tight, swift grin was conspiratorial, and through tears of relief, Anvar found himself grinning back as he offered up his powers once more. Aurian seized them, dropped the shield, and struck.

Their blow was impelled by a new strength, their wills a mighty weapon forged from shared pain, and a new sense of purpose in Aurian’s mind. With the power of the Staff, it was enough. As their blow struck its target, Anvar felt a distant echo of the agony that marked the death of a Mage. His shields brightened and blazed, a sure protection now against the lethal gem sand—but there was no need for them. The storm had vanished. Overhead, stars were shimmering in a clear sky that was washed in the west by the glory of sunset. Anvar looked up, amazed. Hours had passed in their struggle and the battle had lasted a whole day—but it was over at last.

Miathan had been away from his body in trance, resting for the night ahead, when he would perform further acts of sacrifice to increase his power. He would be spending a great deal of time away from his body in the weeks to come, occupying the form of his new Southern pawn while he set in motion the forces that would result in Aurian’s capture. Confident in his own authority, he had never realized that Eliseth might seek to thwart his plans.

The final attack on Eliseth brought the Archmage sharply back to himself, jerking him abruptly into his body as the bed began to shake beneath him. Disoriented by the sudden transition back to corporeality, he staggered to his feet, stumbling as the floor beneath him shuddered and lurched. With a deafening bang, an explosion of blinding light in the courtyard outside shattered the casements of his room, showering him with glass. With his ears ringing, Miathan brushed off splinters and made his way cautiously to the window. The curtains blew wildly, shredded to smoking tatters. He brushed them aside to peer out —and gasped, aghast at the devastation. This was impossible! What had happened while he’d been out of his body?

The courtyard was choked with drifts of glittering sand, and the Archmage had to fight his way through to the blackened shell of the shattered dome. Clawing his way through the smoking rubble, he finally reached the ruined inner chamber— and saw Eliseth kneeling over a black and twisted corpse, the scarcely recognizable remains of Bragar. The stench of charred flesh filled the room, and the Archmage fought down a wave of nausea.

“Aurian . . .” Eliseth whispered. She was shaken but un-scarred. Bragar had taken the full force of the blast, sacrificing himself in order to shield her. How had she duped the witless fool into that? Miathan wondered, then put aside all thoughts of the hapless Fire-Mage. Bragar had always been an idiot. But it was clear that Eliseth had deliberately disobeyed him, and made an attempt on Aurian’s life.

Shaking with rag£, ^Miathan turned his menacing jeweled glare upon the cringing Weather-Mage. Slowly, he advanced upon her, his fists clenched at his side with rage. “What have you done?” he snarled. “What have you done?”

Aurian dropped the Staff and fell to her knees, trembling with exaustion and the aftershock of magic. Anvar sank down beside her. “We did it,” he murmured, still unable to believe it.

“We killed her.”

Aurian nodded. “I felt a death-pang,” she whispered. Her face was bloodless, and Anvar caught her as she began to sway. “I’m all right,” she muttered—her usual, automatic response— but she was trembling violently as she lifted her stricken face to look at him. “Anvar, I—”

“Aurian, after what you’ve just been through—after all the dreadful things I said to you—don’t you dare apologize to me,” Anvar scolded gently.