Maggie Furey - Aurian

Aurian finally broke the long silence between them. “What was my father like?”

The question took Forral by surprise, and he was very much aware of the plea that lay behind the words. “Hasn’t your mother told you?” he asked her.

“No,” she replied. “She won’t talk about him. She said that this was all his fault.” She gestured around her, her voice quavering. “She said he’d done a bad thing, and that it was our duty to make up for it.”

Forral shuddered. What had happened to Eilin? What a terrible burden to lay on a child! “Nonsense,” he said firmly.

“Your father was a good, kind man, and a true friend to me. What happened was an accident. He didn’t do this on purpose, pet. He made a mistake, that’s all—and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

Aurian’s face brightened. “I wish I could remember him,” she said softly. “Will you tell me about him, as we ride?”

“Gladly,” replied Forral.

About two leagues from the center of the bowl, the ground began to level off to a smooth surface with a slight downward slope. Soon the rock was covered with a thin layer of soil, and tiny, struggling plants began to appear. By the time the lake came into view they were riding on wiry turf starred with daisies, and passing thickets of hawthorn, blackberry, and elder that were bowed down beneath a rich harvest of fruit and alive with birds. Groves of shapely trees stood along the green lake shore, some still bearing apples and pears. Forral could not help but be impressed by the scale of Eilin’s accomplishments in eight short years. A pity she couldn’t have lavished the same attention on the child.

The lake was large and round, formed by water draining into the bottom of the crater. In the center stood an island, obviously man (or Mage) made, that was connected to the shore by a slender wooden bridge. On the island a tower rose above the lake like a spear of light. Forral caught his breath. The ground floor was surrounded by gardens and built of black stone, but above it was an airy, glittering structure of crystal that soared high above the gleaming wafers. The ethereal building was topped by a slender glass spire on which a single point of light glowed like a fallen star.

“Dear Gods, it’s lovely!” Forral gasped.

Aurian looked at it dourly. “It’s where we live.” She shrugged and dismounted, setting her pony free with a farewell pat.

Forral did likewise, on her assurance that his horse would stay nearby where there was grazing. Leaving his saddle under a tree, he followed the child across the bridge.

A white-sanded path led through Eilin’s gardens, past neat rows of late-season vegetables; herb beds laid out in a precise, intricate mosaic of varied greens; and banks of fiery autumn flowers in which sat a cluster of beehives, their occupants humming busily among the copper-gold blooms as they made the most of this last, rare warm spell before winter. As he followed the child into the tower, Forral reflected that the Mage had managed to support herself and her daughter very well in their isolation, though he wondered how Eilin obtained grain, cloth, and other necessities that could not be won from the Valley’s soil.

The outer door of the tower led straight into the kitchen, which was obviously the main living area. Its walls were hewn out of the dark stone of the tower’s base, giving it a cavelike appearance made cozy by the glow of the potbellied metal stove in the corner. Colored rugs of woven wool brightened the floor, and there was a scrubbed wooden table with benches tucked beneath. Two chairs with padded seats were pulled up near the stove, and shelves and cupboards lined the walls, making the most of the cramped space. Two doors hid other rooms, and Aurian gestured to the one on the right. “That’s my room,” she informed the swordsman. “She sleeps upstairs, to be near her plants.”

A delicate, twisting metal staircase led to the upper stories. Aurian hesitated at the bottom, gesturing for Forral to precede her. His boots striking bell-like notes on the vibrating metal treads, Forral climbed the stairs, wondering at the look of trepidation on the child’s face.

Looking into the glass rooms of the tower as they led off the staircase, Forral saw the practical purpose behind the building’s exuberant design. The chambers were filled with benches, on which stood trays of earth planted with young seedlings that basked in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight trapped by the crystal walls. A fine spray, seemingly appearing from nowhere, filled the air with moisture, and Forral’s skin prickled with the thick buildup of magic. He was positive that the plants were actually growing before his eyes! When he finally found the Mage in one of the upper rooms, she was too preoccupied to notice him.

“Go away, Aurian,” Eilin muttered, without looking up. “I’ve told you not to bother me when I’m working.”

Eilin had aged, the swordsman thought. It surprised him. Magefolk, like Mortals, could be killed by illness or accident, but otherwise they lived as long as they wanted, dying only when they chose to leave the world and preserving their physical forms at whatever age they wished. Forral remembered Eilin as a vibrant young woman, but now her dark hair was streaked with gray and her forehead was furrowed. Deep, bitter lines tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she looked pale and pitifully thin in her patched and faded robes.

“Eilin, it’s me—Forral,” he called, stifling his dismay. He stepped forward, holding out his arms to hug her—and recoiled as her face twisted with rage at the sight of him.

“Get out!” Eilin snapped. She bore down on the child, and hit her across the face. “How dare you bring him here!”

Aurian dodged behind Forral. “It wasn’t my fault,” she wailed.

Forral, anger boiling inside him, turned to put an arm around her. “Are you all right?”

Aurian nodded, biting her lip, her pale face branded with an ugly red mark. Forral saw tears in her eyes, and gave her a quick hug. “Go downstairs and wait for me by the bridge,” he told her softly.

When the child had gone, the swordsman turned back to Eilin. “That wasn’t very fair,” he said coldly.

“There’s no such thing as fair, Forral—I found that out when Geraint died. The wretched child should have told you that I never see anyone!”

“She did. And I ignored it. Do you want to hit me now?” He was fighting hard to keep his anger in check.

Eilin turned away, avoiding his eyes. “I want you to go away. Why did you come here?”

“I came as soon as I could, when I heard what had happened to Geraint. I wish it had been sooner. It might have saved you from turning into a bitter old woman.”

“How dare you!” she cried.

“It’s the plain truth, Eilin. But I came to offer you my service for Geraint’s sake, and that still stands.”

Eilin stalked away to the far side of the room, her movements jerky with anger. “Curse you, Mortal! Fickle and faithless, like all your kind. What use is your service now? Where were you and your service eight years ago, when I needed you? You were Geraint’s friend—he listened to you. With your help I might have dissuaded him from his insanity. But no—you had an itch to wander—to see the world. Well, I hope the experience was enough to recompense you for the death of a friend. Your service comes far too late, Forral. Get out of here, and don’t come back!”

Hardened warrior though he was, Forral flinched from Eilin’s bitter words. His grief at Geraint’s death was still raw, and her accusations contained just enough truth to hurt. Perhaps it would be as well if he did go ... Then Forral remembered the child.

“No.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m not leaving, Eilin. It’s obviously been bad for you to be alone like this, and the child needs someone to care for her. You might as well get used to the fact that I’m staying, because there’s nothing you can do about it.”