Maggie Furey - Aurian

“But he knows your name,” Forral pointed out with a frown.

Sara shrugged. “I’m married to the most important merchant in the city. Lots of people know my name. Vannor, take me home. This revolting creature is making me ill!”

Vannor shrugged helplessly. “All right,” he said. “Forral, you’ll excuse us?” Taking his wife’s arm, he led her out.

As they passed the prisoner, he struggled free from the guards and fell at Sara’s feet, clutching at the hem of her gown. “Sara, please . . .” he begged.

With an exclamation of disgust, the woman twitched her skirts from his grasp and swept out of the door. Aurian closed her eyes against the naked hurt and betrayal on his face. Sara was lying, she was sure. The man buried his face in his hands, and began to sob. Aurian, galvanized by the tortured, hopeless weeping, dropped to her knees at his side, her heart aching for him.

“Poor man,” she said softly. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. And whoever did this to you ...” Her voice grew fierce. “I’ll make sure it never happens again!”

Anvar looked up at the call, red-haired woman. He could tell from her appearance that she was a Mage, and recognized her as Forral’s companion when the swordsman had come to the shop, that day so long ago. Her eyes were flinty with anger. In his horror at Sara’s betrayal, he had failed to hear her comforting words, and thought her rage was directed at him. Anvar made a strangled sound of fear deep in his throat—then broke out into a sudden fit of sneezing. The Mage frowned, and fished in her pocket for a handkerchief, which she handed to him. No ladylike scrap of lace, this, but a large square of white linen that, judging from the oily smearr, locked as though it had last been used for cleaning a sword. As he blew, she placed a cool hand on Anvar’s brow. “Forral, he’s ill!” she said sharply. “Help me get him inside. Parric, fetch some broth from the mess hall. He looks half starved. Hurry!”

Anvar saw the two men look at each other and shrug, then he was hoisted up by Forral himself, and half carried into a snug inner room where a bright fire burned.

“Put him on the couch.”

Anvar wondered who she was, to be giving orders to the Garrison Commander. Imprisoned as he had been in the Academy kitchens, he had never come into contact with any of the Magefolk.

“But Aurian,” heXfiJthy,” Forral protested.

So this was the Lady Aurian, said to be the Archmage’s favorite! Anvar felt sick with fear. When he had been brought before Commander Forral, he had hoped to be able to plead his case. But now he was back in the hands of the Magefolk—and who knew what punishment the Archmage would have in store for him?

The Mage spread a blanket on the couch and helped him sit, putting an arm around his shoulders—right on the bruises where Janok had beaten him with the broom. The pain made him cry out. In one swift movement, she ripped away the remnants of his tattered shirt. Anvar heard her make an inarticulate retching sound, then she swore viciously. “Who did that?” she growled, turning him to face her.

Anvar could feel her anger beating against him like a physical presence. She seemed to grow in stature, and her green eyes glowed with an icy gray light. With a sudden thrill of fear, he realized that she was not the Archmage’s protegee for nothing. He began to tremble.

“Steady, love. He’s terrified. Don’t worry, lad, she’s not angry with you,”

Portal’s gentle voice gave Anvar courage. “It was Janok,” he whispered,

“The bastard\” Aurian exploded, leaping up and striking her fist on the high marble mantelpiece with such magically impelled force that the thick stone corner broke off in a flash of light.

Anvar was awestruck but Forral simply sighed. “Aurian,” he said, in tones of mild reproof.

Guiltily the Mage retrieved the broken piece from the hearth and set it back into place. “Sorry, Forral.” As she passed her hand across it, the stone fused together without a trace of a join. She shook her head. “I can’t believe this could happen in the Academy,” she said. “Wait until Miathan gets here! In the meantime—” She returned to Anvar as she spoke. “I’ll see what I can do to help this poor soul.”

“Aurian, no!” Portal’s voice was urgent.

“Whyever not?” Aurian sounded astonished. “I’ve learned enough from Meiriel to be able to Heal—”

“It’s not that,” Forral said. “He’s a runaway, and—”

“It makes no difference!” Aurian insisted angrily.

“Look, love, I know it’s hard, but Miathan has the right to punish him. If he sees what’s been done to him, it should go easier on the poor lad. Besides, the Archmage should know what’s going on in his halls.” Forral’s voice was stern. “This has got to be stopped.”

Sara stormed into her bedroom, venting her temper on the door with a vicious slam’ that in a lesser home would have shaken the building to its very rafters. Not here, though. Van-nor’s mansion had been constructed by master craftsmen out of the best materials that gold could buy. Despite the entire weight of her body behind the shove, the heavy slab of oak swung ponderously shut on its oiled and balanced hinges, and slipped smoothly into its frame with a barely audible click. Robbed of its expression, the pressure of Sara’s rage could only increase. Screeching obscenities like a dockside fishwife, she picked up the nearest object to hand—a white porcelain vase filled with hyacinth and winter roses—and flung it at the offending door.

Sara gasped, her rage stifled for an instant by horror at the damage she had caused—the shattered vase, a gouge in the door’s silken paneling, the crushed and twisted flowers, and the water stains that dimmed the jeweled colors of the room’s rich carpet. Then her shoulders straightened in defiance. So the carpet was ruined—so what? This place was hers now, as well as Vannor’s. And she would treat it as she pleased, It would serve him right if she tore his precious hpuse apart with her bare hands!

As her anger flared up anew, Sara paced the room, heedless of the splintered porcelain and broken blooms that she was treading into the carpet’s deep pile. How dare Vannor take her to task for her rudeness in so brusquely leaving that uncouth oaf of a soldier and that hoydenish scarecrow Mage! How dare he give her such a dress ing-down—and in front of his wretched, smirking children!

But at the thought of her husband, Sara’s recalcitrance faltered a little. This had been their first real quarrel—in all the months of their marriage, Vannor had never before raised his voice to her. She’d been a fool today, she suddenly realized— careless, overconfident, too certain that she had him in her power. She would have to make it up with him, and as soon as possible. He was her security—her wonderful, newfound wealth and luxury. Her protection against her father, and what he’d done to her, against squalor and poverty and endless brutal toil, against the scandal of having been pregnant to some stinking wreck of a bondservant who was no better than an animal . . . As the vision of Anvar rose up in her mind’s eye, Sara began to tremble. Her shock at seeing him so unexpectedly after all this time, her horror when he had called her by name, had completely scattered her wits. All she could think of was flight—of putting as great a distance as possible between herself and the bruised and filthy bundle of rags who had called her with Anvar’s voice, and beseeched her with those blazing blue eyes.

With hands that shook violently, Sara unlocked the delicate lacquered cabinet that stood by her bed and pulled out a crystal decanter that shot splintered rainbow sparks into the room’s wintry light. It was her solace and her secret—her maid had been well bribed to keep it filled, and keep her mouth shut. On the nights—most nights—that Vannor visited her bed, she would lock the door when he had finished and gone, and sit through the long wakeful hours, drinking wine and piling the white counterpane with all her jewels, in little heaps that sparkled warmly in the candlelight.