Maggie Furey - Aurian

When Anvar went to take up his new duties, Finbarr’s dirty, disheveled appearance disabused him of the notion. The Archivist greeted him with relief. “My, but you’re a sight for sore eyes, Anvar! Aurian offered to help me with this appalling c, but I insisted that she go away as usual. I’ve been worried jut her lately—she insists on working too hard! Besides, all I is a quick brain and an extra pair of hands—though you’re as good to look at, if you’ll forgive my saying so. Come this ’—I’m working right down on the lower levels.” He held his dusty hands with a grimace. “There’s stuff down there at hasn’t been disturbed in cent-uriej!”

The days of Aurian’s absence passed quickly for Anvar. He to work harder for Finbarr than he had done for his Lady, he found an endless fascination in sorting the ancient docu-lents. The Archivist was delighted to have his assistance, and lore than happy to encourage his interest.

Finbarr was attempting to use the much neglected sorting of the lower levels to further his research into his own pet subject: the ancient history of the Magefolk. “If you look into the annals, my boy,” he told Anvar, “you will find that every Archivist has had his particular obsession. It’s an odd position, this—the holder’s magical talents are of small importance, except that they can be used to further the work in hand. My own powers, for instance, mainly encompass Air and Fire, but my predecessor was a Water-Mage, and the work she did in drying out these very lower levels, so that we can work in them, was invaluable. But what counts most is a love of order, and an insatiable thirst for knowledge—that’s what makes an Archivist!”

While they worked, Anvar would listen happily as Finbarr expounded his theories on the disastrous wars of the Ancient Magefolk. “So much was lost,” the Archivist would mourn, “in the destruction of Old Nexis. There are vague, unsubstantiated hints, you know, in some of the Chronicles, that we were not the only race of Magefolk at that time! Of course, we know that the Dragonfolk existed, though our knowledge of them is scant. But certain sources—alas, discredited as the blackest of heretics by many previous Archivists—hint that the Cataclysm was actually set in motion by a Mage who could fly, if you can believe it! Still others suggest that there were Mages who could live beneath the sea, and that all these races had a part in the forming of the four legendary Weapons of the Elements . . .” He sighed. “If only I could find something that might decrease our ignorance of those times ... If those four Implements of Power really did exist, then surely they must still be at large in the world—and should they fall into the wrong hands, then history could easily repeat itself . . .”

Though Anvar, unlike Finbarr, refused to lose sleep over the possibility of another Cataclysm, he hoped that the Archivist would find what K? sought. There was a time, he knew, when Finbarr’s pursuit of knowledge for knowledge’s sake would have angered him, given the poverty and suffering that existed among so many Mortals. But the Archivist meant well ... In all honesty, he found Finbarr’s enthusiasm very contagious.

On a bright, crisp day that presaged the turning of the season to autumn, Finbarr decided it was time to tackle the lowest level of all. “I must make the most of you, before Aurian gets back.” He smiled. “She is due any day now. I wonder what she’d say if I decided to steal you for good?” For a moment, Anvar was tempted by the idea. He had enjoyed assisting the Archivist, but more to the point, he had seen nothing of the Archmage while Aurian was away. He’d be safer as Finbarr’s ft, servant, and he would also escape the torment of Miathan’s visits to his Lady. Nonetheless, he felt a strange pang of reluctance at the thought of leaving Aurian. Lately, he had found himself looking every day for her return, and had finally been forced to the astonishing conclusion that he missed her.

Anvar followed Finbarr down through the maze of passages and stairways that had been hewn out of the living rock of the promontory. They passed beyond the upper levels where the Archivist had set lights of glowing crystal, until their only illumination was the glowing ball of Magelight that Finbarr sent before them. Their shadows, cast by the iridescent, silvery globe, bobbed and danced like puppets on the rough stone walls.

“I thought we would make a start in here.” Finbarr ducked through a doorless archway, and Anvar followed him into a small stone chamber whose walls were filled with crumbling wooden shelving. The place was shrouded in dust and cobwebs, and many of the shelves had collapsed beneath the weight of documents. Scrolls and papers lirtered the floor in haphazard piles. The Archivist sighed. “By lonor the Wise,” he muttered, “my predecessors neglected these lower levels disgracefully! It’s a lifetime’s work to put it right, Anvar my friend—and that being the case, we’d better get started!” He felt in the pockets of his robes, and grimaced in irritation. “Drat! I forgot to bring my crystals with me to light our labors!”

“I’ll go,” Anvar offered. “I know where you keep them, Sir.”

“Never mind. If you trek all the way up to the library and back again, we’ll lose half the day. Besides, it’s a tricky route for the uninitiated.” Finbarr’s eyes twinkled. “Aurian would never forgive me if I lost you in the bowels of the earth! We’ll manage.” He tossed the ball of Magelight toward the ceiling, but it went too high, splattering against the buttressed stone in an explosion of sparks and plunging them into utter blackness.

“Festering bat turds! I’m always doing that!” Finbarr’s voice echoed, sharp with annoyance, out of the darkness.

Anvar caught his breath. His night vision had always been excellent, but he had never experienced such absolute darkness. It pressed on him as though the entire weight of the hill were resting on his shoulders. In panic, he turned to flee. His foot caught in a pile of scrolls and he overbalanced, falling hard against the wall. The shelves above him collapsed in an avalanche of papers and splintered wood—then an entire section of the wall gave way beneath his weight, in a cloud of dust and a rumble of stone.

Finbarr struck a new light. “By the Gods, Anvar! See what you’ve found!” His young-old face was alight with excitement. Anvar scrambled out of the wreckage, brushing off rubble and dust. Beyond the wall was a chamber—no, a cave. A tunnel led from it at the far side, promising further secrets beyond. Finbarr’s eyes glowed with rapture as he looked at the treasures within. Ancient volumes, their gilded bindings winking in the Magelight, were piled in chests and scattered across the floor, as though they had been abandoned in a hurry. Tapestries lay stacked in a corner, and a pile of artifacts—personal belongings by their look—were tumbled against the opposite wall. As Anvar looked, a beautiful golden chalice toppled from the pile and rolled across the floor toward him. He stepped forward to catch it, but Finbarr thrust him back.

“Wait! There’s magic here! This place is protected!” Seizing his arm, the Archivist hauled Anvar out of the chamber. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “you have just made the most valuable discovery of our age! We must fetch the Archmage at once!”

Before she entered the Mages’ Tower, Aurian took a good long look around the familiar courtyard of the Academy and decided that she was glad to be back. Although she’d enjoyed her visit with Eilin, she had missed Forral dreadfully, and had also been worried about Anvar, and how he had managed in her absence. Once again, she wondered why he was so afraid of Miathan, and why the Archmage seemed to have taken such a marked dislike to him. If Miathan had truly believed that Anvar was a murderer, it would explain the mystery—but if that was so, then why had his attitude not altered when her servant’s name had been cleared?