Maggie Furey - Aurian

Lifting her blade again, Aurian cursed the swordsman’s tirelessness, cursed his insistence that they practice even on Solstice Morn, cursed her stupidity in drinking too much the previous night, and not going to bed sooner. Drat that D’arvan! Sweat ran down stinging into her eyes and dripped onto the sands of the Garrison’s great, barnlike practice arena. Trembling with weariness, she forced her sword up to parry Forral’s lightning thrusts. Why on earth had she nagged him to resume her sword training? She would never have believed that she could be so out of condition, so out of practice. And four months of sweaty, back-breaking torture on these sands seemed to have brought little improvement. Would she ever get her old skills back?

Forral drove in suddenly, his heavy sword a flickering swirl of light as he employed the famous circling twist of the blade— his own trademark, which neither Aurian nor anyone else could seem to master. She gasped with pain as her wrists snapped round, and her sword flew spinning from her hands to land some distance away.

Forral shook his head. “You’re dead!” he said. Before Aurian had time to react, he spun her round by the shoulder and whacked her hard across the backside with the flat of his blade. It was a trick she was all too familiar with—one that he used on all his pupils as an incentive not to repeat their errors.

“Ow!” Aurian wailed indignantly, rubbing at the sting. Tears of exhaustion and frustration sprang into her eyes.

Forral’s arms went comfortingly around her, one big hand kneading the tight, aching muscles across her shoulders and in the back of her neck. “Never mind, love,” he said softly. “I know it’s hard, but you simply can’t afford to make mistakes that will kill you. It’s coming back to you, though—I can see the improvement. You’re making up a lot of lost time, that’s all. Just stick at it, and we’ll soon have you back in fighting shape.”

Aurian leaned into his chest, smelling clean sweat and the tough, scarred leather of his fighting vest. His words of encouragement warmed her, and she was grateful for the support of his brawny arms round her weary body. “All right, Forral,” she murmured trustingly.

Lightly, he kissed the top of her head, and at his touch, Aurian’s heart give a dizzy lurch. A tingling heat swept through her body. Again. It happened now, whenever he was close to her. Oh, Forral! She’d loved him since she was a child, but after his return, the change in the quality of that love had left her baffled and thwarted. She had finally admitted to herself that she wanted more, now, than the affectionate comradeship they had always shared.

Aurian tightened her arms round his neck and looked up searchingly into his face, unable to hide her longing. As always, his eyes met hers for an agonizing instant, then flicked away. “Come on,” he said gruffly, stepping back from her. “Vannor’s coming this morning, remember? We’d better get cleaned up for that snooty wife of his.” Without looking at her, he walked away. Her throat tight with misery, Aurian retrieved her fallen sword and followed him out of the arena.

Vannor and his lady had arrived early, and were waiting in Forral’s rooms. Aurian felt a stab of annoyance as the elegant young woman wrinkled her nose fastidiously at the sight of her in her battle-scarred leather vest and breeches. Aurian had taken an intense dislike to Vannor’s new wife. The slender, blond young woman looked around Forral’s wood-paneled, workmanlike quarters with an air of distaste, as though disgusted to find herself in such a lowly place. Sourly, Aurian wondered how, since the girl was so much shorter than herself and Forral, she could still manage to look down her nose at the two of them. With her own feelings still stinging from Forral’s latest rebuff, she found the besotted look in Vannor’s eyes as he gazed at his wife very hard to take.

Aurian was fond of the blunt, straightforward merchant. Short and stocky, his beard and hair cropped very short, Vannor resembled exactly what he was—a former dockside tough made good. His rough voice was still edged with the gritty accent of the wharves, and he took no pains to alter it. But his hard exterior disguised a warm, generous heart. He plainly doted on Sara. She was magnificently clad in rich, fur-trimmed velvet, her hair done up in an elaborate knot, her fingers, wrists, and ears dripping with the jewels he had bought her. She looked flawlessly beautiful—except for her haughty expression, and the hard, calculating look that came into her eyes whenever she looked at her husband.

Vannor, as Head of the Merchants’ Guild, had planned this Solstice visit to the Garrison as a courtesy to the new Commander. The Archmage, the third member of the Ruling Council, was expected later. It was not a lively gathering. Though Vannor and Forral were good company as a rule, the normally bluff and hearty merchant seemed constrained by his wife’s presence, and Forral was unusually quiet, frowning more than he smiled. Aurian, nursing her heartache, was wondering if she should excuse herself and go back to the Academy, when there came a knock at the door. Forral went to answer it, and Aurian, relieved at the interruption, followed him into the outer chamber.

It was Parric, the Cavalrymaster, the leathery, balding little man was Duty Officer for the day, and his manner was apologetic, “Sorry to disturb you, Forral, but a miller along the river has caught a runaway bondservant. We’ve just brought him in.”

Forral sighed. Aurian knew that he loathed the practice of bonding, but unfortunately, he had been unable to influence the Council against it. The Archmage supported it, and Vannor was forced to bow to the wishes of the merchants that he represented, who increased their profits through not having to pay their bonded labor.

“For goodness’ sake, Parric!” Forral said testily. “Why bother me with this now? Just lock him up, and we’ll deal with him tomorrow, artetushf holiday.”

Parric looked uncomfortable. “Sir—I think you should see him. The poor sod’s in an awful state—beaten black and blue! Honestly, I don’t blame him for trying to run away. I wouldn’t treat a dog the way he’s been treated.”

Forral frowned. “Sorry, Parric—that’s different, of course. We had better look into it. I won’t have people getting away with that kind of abuse. Who is he bonded to?”

Parric hesitated. “Well, it’s a bit awkward, you see—”

“Come on, man, you’ve seen his mark! Stop maithering and tell me!”

The Cavalrymaster glanced uneasily at Aurian. “He’s bonded to the Academy.”

“What!” Aurian was stunned. “But he can’t be—”

“He is. And it’s a bloody disgrace, let me tell you.” Parric’s look was plainly accusing.

“Steady on, Parric,” Forral intervened, putting his arm around the indignant Mage. “Just bring him in, and we’ll get this straightened out.”

“He’s outside.” Parric beckoned through the open doorway, and two guards entered, supporting a limp, ragged form between them. The man stank. His clothing was tattered and filthy, and soaked through. He was shivering violently, and his skin had a bluish tinge. His face was swollen and covered in bruises,

Aurian was horrified. Who at the Academy had treated the poor man so badly? Suddenly his eyes opened—the most brilliant, piercing blue that Aurian had ever seen. They looked straight past her, and stretched wide in joyful astonishment,

“Sara!” the man gasped.

Aurian whirled to see Vannor’s wife standing in the inner doorway, her face deathly white. Drawing herself upright, Sara looked down on the runaway servant with icy contempt. “Who is this wretch?” she demanded coldly, “I never saw him before in my life!”