Maggie Furey - Aurian

Aurian’s yawn pulled him back from his thoughts. “Well, that’s it for me,” she said. “I’m worn out. Forral almost battered me to death in sword practice this morning, and I have to be up early tomorrow for more of the same, Solstice Day or no. Good night, D’arvan.”

“Good night, Aurian, and—” D’arvan cursed the wretched shyness that always kept him so tongue-tied. “And thank you for keeping me company tonight,” he finished softly.

Aurian smiled. “Thank you, D’arvan. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. Gods, but these Magefolk feasts are dull!”

The wealth of feeling in her words was a comfort to him. She had stayed with him for most of the evening, telling him about her current Healing studies with Meiriel, and her new Mortal friends at the Garrison, but all the time he had thought she was doing it from pity, since Davorshan had so hurtfully ignored his presence. His twin had spent the whole night dancing with Eliseth, dining with Eliseth, laughing and flirting with her. He had eyes for no one else. Now the pair were seated near the fire, lingering over their goblets of wine, deep in conversation.

Aurian, as if she knew what was troubling him, frowned at Eliseth and her rapt companion. “D’arvan,” she said, “It’s none of my business, but maybe you spend too much time with your brother. If you want, you would be welcome to visit the Garrison with me sometimes. They’re good people, you’d like them, and I think you need a change of company.”

D’arvan stared at her, startled and lost for an answer. Go among a lot of strangers? Alone? The notion terrified him. He had never done anything without his brother! Yet he appreciated the kindness of her offer. It seemed she had noticed that during these last months, Davorshan had been spending more and more time with Eliseth and her friends.

D’arvan twisted his hands together beneath the table, fighting despair. Davorshan had said that the Weather-Mage was teaching him to bring forth some of his dormant powers. If it was true—and his brother never lied to him—then he, D’arvan, was now the only powerless Mage in the Academy! He shivered. How long would Miathan let him stay, if he had no powers? Where would he go if the Archmage cast him out? “Are you all right?” Aurian sounded concerned. D’arvan longed to confide in her and ask for her help—oh Gods, he needed a friend right now! But his crippling shyness kept him silent, and he didn’t want her to blame his brother. For some reason, she had never liked Davorshan. “I must be tired,” he prevaricated. “Perhaps I’ll go to bed.”

Aurian raised a skeptical eyebrow, then shrugged slightly. “Good idea—that’s where I’m going. Anyway, think about what I said. The offer is always open. And D’arvan, if you ever need someone to talk to—well, I’m available.”

After she had gone, D’arvan sat alone, waiting for his brother. Eventually, growing weary, he went to bid his twin good night. Davorshan sat beside Eliseth, his arm around her shoulders, their heads very close as they talked in soft voices. The Magewoman was stunning in a gown of shimmering ice-blue. Her long hair was intricately braided and coiled with a thin, interlacing silver chain. At D’arvan’s hesitant approach, Davorshan looked up sharply. Attuned as always to his twin’s thoughts, D’arvan sensed annoyance, a flicker of guilt—and something else. Something wrong.

Before he could identify it, Davorshan’s shields slammed down, shutting him out for the first time in their lives. D’arvan reeled as though he had been struck. He had never felt so alone —as if a part of himself had been brutally torn away. The isolation—the loss—the uncertainty—he was too overwhelmed by pain and confusion to speak.

“How dare you spy on me!” Davorshan shouted, his face flushing crimson. “I’m sick of you following me around with that pathetic expression on your face! Get away from me, do you hear? Leave me alone!”

D’arvan was stunned by the bitter hostility of his brother’s tone. As he fled, gulping back sobs, he was pursued by the sound of Eliseth’s silvery laughter.

Anvar tiptoed across the floor of the cavernous kitchen, carefully avoiding the sleeping bodies. The door opened silently to a swirl of fine, wind-driven snow. Anvar grabbed an empty flour sack to cover his head and shoulders and slipped outside, closing the door quietly behind him. The night was bitterly cold. The darkened courtyard was empty, and no lights burned in the Mages’ Tower. The two guards at the upper gate were huddled over a brazier in the gatehouse with a shared bottle, playing dice and keeping out of the icy wind that pierced Anvar’s filthy, ragged clothing as he lurked in the shadows. Every minute or so, one of the guards would look up from the game, keeping an eye on the gate. Anvar cursed. He had to escape—he had to! Butiiow? The bitter wind was rapidly sucking the heat from his body, and every minute he lingered here increased his chance of being discovered.

Voices! Anvar jumped. His heart hammering wildly, he peered round the corner of the building, to see the door of the Great Hall open, spilling golden light onto the snow. A group of figures came out, all cloaked and hooded, and bearing a variety of oddly shaped burdens, well wrapped against the cold. Of course! Anvar remembered hearing that there would be musicians at the Mage’s feast. Now they were going home. Going out!

Not daring to consider the risks, Anvar hid in the shadows of the narrow alley between the infirmary and the kitchens until they had all passed him, heading for the gates. He darted across the intervening space, keeping low, and tagged on to the end of the group, hoping his sack would pass for a hood in the dim light. The tired musicians, muffled deep in their cloaks and only concerned with getting home out of the cold, never noticed the addition to their number. Nor did the tipsy guards. “Joyous Solstice,” they called as the musicians went through. As the gate clanged shut behind him, Anvar sagged with relief.

There was a new watchman in the gatehouse at the bottom of the hill. He was younger than the one Anvar remembered from years ago. He was mulling ale at his small fireplace as the musicians approached, and was more concerned with his steaming jug than anything else. He opened the spiked iron gates with scarcely a glance, and waved them impatiently through. Free! Anvar’s heart soared^The musicians passed over the causeway and into the tree-lined avenue leading to the bridge that crossed back into the city. Anvar detached himself from the group and hid until they were well away, before crossing the slender stone span himself. Once across the river, he circled through the back streets to give the wharves a wide berth, keeping a watchful eye out for patrols from the Garrison. Avoiding groups of drunken revelers, he angled back toward the towpath and made his way upriver.

The journey seemed longer than he remembered. The snow fell thicker now, and was heaping in drifts across the path. Visibility was poor, and Anvar was forced to stay near the thickets on the bank with their clutching, thorny limbs—or run the risk of blundering into the river. The exertion of his escape had intensified the pain of his battered body, and he shook with cold and fatigue as the wind blew into his face, blinding him with its burden of snow. Stubbornly he staggered on, drawn by the thought of seeing Sara again.

The shadowy figure of a woman, cloaked and hooded against the snow, stood by the mill looking down at the speeding, glimmering waters of the millrace.

Anvar’s heart beat fast. “Sara?” he whispered.

The woman spun round with a sharp exclamation. “Anvar!” It was Verla, Sara’s mother.

“Please,” Anvar begged her, ignoring the hostility in her voice. “I’ve got to see Sara. Is she all right?”