Maggie Furey - Aurian

Forral entered the room, and found Aurian regarding her patient with an oddly tender expression. He was rocked back on his heels by a violent surge of jealousy. What was it about this bloody man anyway, that she had defended him so fiercely against the Archmagep—and himself?

Aurian looked up quickly, her expression suddenly clouded.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed.” He couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice.

Aurian winced. “Forral, I’m sorry I lost my temper with you. I’m really grateful for your help—”

“You’ve a warrior’s heart, lass, to defend what you believe in so fiercely—and to take on the Archmage, too! I’ll always help you, you know that, but . . . Aurian, are you sure this was a good idea?”

“Forral, not again! Don’t you understand that I’m no longer a child?”

Her meaning was all too clear. She sounded so sad, so wistful, that he had to fight the urge to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her as she so plainly wanted him. Forral pulled himself together. It was impossible. There were reasons for the proscription against love between Magefolk and Mortals —reasons that she had not considered. He had to protect her. He steeled himself against the longing in her eyes, forcing himself to be genial.

“I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I’ve looked after you since you were a little scrap of a thing, remember? Us old folk tend to forget how fast our charges grow up.”

She looked away, and Forral knew she was trying to hide her hurt from him. He left the room hastily, closing the door behind him. Leaning against the polished panels, he swore softly and continuously for several minutes. How much longer could this go on? He should never have come back! Seeing how things were turning out, he should have left at once. He should leave now, but ... He couldn’t. He couldn’t leave her again. With a sigh, Forral turned away from Aurian’s door and went off to find himself a very large drink. These days, it was the only thing that helped.

When Anvar returned to the Academy as the Lady Aurian’s servant, he found that his life changed completely. He no longer had to suffer the bullying of the kitchen workers, for the personal servants of the Magefolk lived apart from the menials, and under very different conditions. The Chief Steward Elewin, a tall, gaunt, silver-haired old man with a gentle expression, ruled the household servants with a rod of iron, but he was scrupulously fair, and tolerated no gossip among his charges. As long as Anvar worked hard and kept out of trouble, Elewin made sure he was left alone.

Anvar had a bunk in the servants’ dormitory next to the Mages’ Tower. Regular, hearty meals were served in the adjacent refectory, and personal servants were issued clean, neat working clothes every day.

Anvar was torn between gratitude and resentment for the Mage who had rescued him. She had saved him from the Archmage’s wrath, and thanks to her, his life had improved considerably—but by asking him to swear Miathan’s oath, she had trapped him here. But he had no other life, since Sara had rejected him so cruelly. Yet how could he blame her? His fathering of a child on her had led to her being sold in marriage to that brute of a merchant. Even-if she had dared to help him with Vannor present, why should she? She had every reason to hate him! Anvar was heartbroken and bereft. Now he had nothing—not even hope. All he had was work. So he worked as hard as he could, wishing that his Lady would give him more to do, so he would have less time to think. Elewin was pleased with him, and Anvar welcomed the Steward’s kindly praise after Janok’s abuse.

The other Magefolk took little notice of the servants. On rare occasions when he came into contact with them, Anvar found Meiriel brisk and efficient, Finbarr kindly but vague, and Eliseth cold and scathing. D’arvan rarely spoke. Davorshan and Bragar were the two to avoid. Davorshan was simply a bully, but there was a genuine streak of cruelty in Bragar. He regularly abused the servants, who were all afraid of him. Even Elewin gave the Fire-Mage a wide berth.

Anvar had expected that the Lady Aurian, having settled his fate with typical Magefolk arrogance, would have little time for a mere servant, but he was wrong. She always had a smile and a kind word for him, and invariably thanked him for his efforts. Her consideration earned her little respect from the other servants, and this so puzzled him that he plucked up courage to ask Elewin about it.

“It’s simple enough,” the Steward said. “The household staff, I’m afraid, is somewhat lacking in imagination, and the Lady Aurian differs from other Mages, because of her association with Mortals. It violates what the servants see as the natural order at the Academy, and it makes them nervous.” His gray eyes twinkled. “Personally, I find it refreshing, but don’t you go repeating that, young Anvar. And never confuse her kindness with softness. If you take liberties, you’ll soon find that she has the usual Magefolk temper!”

Anvar took the advice to heart. He was still wary of his Lady, who was one of the hated Magefolk, and not to be trusted. He lived in constant dread of what would happen when the tale that he had murdered his mother spread from the kitchens to the servants’ quarters, and thence, gossip being what it was, to his new mistress. He wondered why the Archmage had not told her himself, especially during their confrontation at the Garrison. But one morning, within a month of his joining the household--staff, he found the other servants whispering in corners and avoiding him, and he knew that the secret was out. Even the kindly Elewin was looking at him with a frown. Anvar was glad to collect the Lady’s breakfast—the warm, soft, fresh-baked rolls that were all she ate at this early hour, and a huge pot of taillin—and hurry away to the sanctuary of her room.

The Mage rose early for her sword practice at the Garrison, and on these iron-hard winter mornings her room was dark and chill. Anvar laid the table and lit the lamps, and was cleaning the fireplace when Aurian, never at her best at this hour, entered looking cross and bleary-eyed. Anvar busied himself at the hearth, trying to make himself inconspicuous and praying that the rumors had not reached her. He heard her footsteps crossing the floor behind him, the scrape of her chair on the carpet, and the sound of taillin pouring into a cup. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

“Anvar—I want to talk to you.”

Anvar’s heart lurched, as his terror of the Magefolk blazed up within him, renewed. He dropped the bucket with an ear-splitting clang, and to his horror, the ash flew up in a cloud to cover every surface. The Mage leapt up from her ruined breakfast with a blistering oath, her hair and face turning powdery gray.

Anvar threw himself at her feet, quaking. “Lady, please—” he begged. “It was an accident!”

“Of course it was!” Aurian knelt at his side. “Don’t cringe like that, Anvar—I’m sorry I frightened you. I was half asleep, and that noise startled me out of my wits!”

She was apologizing—to him? Anvar looked up at the Mage in astonishment.

Aurian’s lips began to twitch. “Gods,” she chuckled, “you look like the offspring of a ghost and a scarecrow!” She ran her hands through her abundant red hair, and was immediately enveloped in a choking gray cloud.

“Lady, I’m so terribly sorry,” Anvar said in dismay, as she coughed and spluttered.

“Not to worry. We’ll soon fix it.” She gave a flip of her fingers—and instantly every speck of ash was back in the bucket. Throwing logs into the fireplace, she ignited them with a careless gesture. “We Magefolk’are ^o used to people running around after us, we forget we can do things for ourselves!” Then her manner sobered. “Come and sit with me, Anvar. There’s something I need to ask you.”