While they ate, Raven told her story. Her people had lived in their isolated mountain fastness for centuries, growing hardy crops in terraced valleys and tending their flocks of hill goats and ground birds. But in the last months, an unnatural, un-seasonal winter had laid waste to their civilization. She told the Mages of sudden, lethal snowstorms, of biting cold that had ruined the land, and the-ascendancy of the evil, power-hungry High Priest. Raven shuddered as she spoke of human sacrifices, of atrocities committed in the name of salvation, of the helplessness and desperation of her mother, the Queen. “Then Blacktalon insisted on taking me as his bride,” she said. “I knew he planned to depose Flamewing and consolidate his hold over the Skyfolk, ruling in my name.”
She described her escape from Aerillia in the storm, and the hardship and suffering of crossing the desert, flying by night from oasis to oasis, exhausted and hungry, but driven onward by fear and desperation. Tears stood in her eyes. “I didn’t want to run away. It was my only hope—I would not have survived Blacktalon’s cruelty for long—but it tore my heart to go. Even at the risk of my life I would return, if I thought I could do something. Could you help us? Please? My people are dying!”
Aurian looked away, unable to meet her eyes.
Anvar both saw and sensed the Mage’s distress, and knew what she must be thinking. Eliseth. Who else could have brought down this unnatural winter? The Winged Folk had fallen victim to the Magefolk’s pursuit of Aurian. An uneasy silence had fallen in the chamber. Abruptly, Aurian thrust the remains of her supper aside. Without a word she hoisted herself up with her staff, and limped out of the chamber. Anvar followed her outside.
Aurian was sitting with her back against the wall of their building, shivering a little in the cool desert night, her eyes fixed blankly on the sparkling heavens. “Go away,” she said, without turning.
“No.” Anvar sat down beside her. “Stop blaming yourself.”
“Who else should I blame?” There was a thin edge of anger in her voice. “All this started because Forral and I—”
“Don’t be stupid!” Anvar snapped. “Aurian, we’ve been through this. It started because Miathan turned the Caldron to evil. It started because of the blind, arrogant prejudice of the Magefolk toward Mortals! You’ve suffered enough, without tearing yourself up over the Winged Folk.”
“How can you say that?” Aurian flared. “We’re all responsible!” Her eyes hardened. “Yes, even you, Anvar. You brought Forral, raging, into Miathan’s chamber that night, and forced the Archmage to release the Wraiths!”
Anvar turned suddenly cold. “I’ve always wondered if you blamed me for Forral’s death,” he said quietly.
Aurian remained silent, refusing to look at him. Not knowing what else to say, he went back inside with bowed head and heavy steps.
Raven looked up as he entered. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked him anxiously.
Anvar stared at her as though returning from a dream, and collected his scattered thoughts. “No—nothing. She needs some time to think.”
Shia was not fooled. “Should I go?”
He shook his head, “She wants to be alone.”
The light of the crystal was dying. Anvar lay beside it, but its residual heat did nothing to pierce the bitter chill inside him. Why now? he thought. Why, after all this time, should she accuse me? But she had every right. During the months of their journey, he had thrust away the memory of his part in Forral’s death, not wanting to believe it and hoping against hope that Aurian did not. Aurian . . . surely if she blamed him, she must hate him? Anvar tossed restlessly, tormented by guilt and misery. It was hours before he finally fell asleep, but the Mage did not return.
Aurian sat long into the night gazing blindly at the stars and trying to come to terms with her guilt and confusion. Her angry, unguarded outburst to Anvar had horrified her. She hadn’t meant to accuse him—the words had come from nowhere, as the thought had come into her mind. Do I really blame him? she thought. Has this been at the back of my mind all along? Suddenly she was startled out of her thoughts by a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of a stealthy movement in the darkness beyond her. The Mage reached quickly for her sword—and caught her breath as a figure emerged from the shadows.
“Forral!” The exclamation froze in Aurian’s throat as he stepped toward her. This pale wraith was not the lusty, living man she had known and loved! His image wavered, oddly translucent and cloaked in an eye-deceiving glimmer. His ghostly face was frowning and sad. Aurian felt herself redden with shame, as she heard his gruff voice in her mind. “That wasn’t very fair to Anvar, was it, love? I taught you better than to waste time dealing out blame. Miathan’s evil is spreading, and that’s no way to deal with it!”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she whispered unhappily. The ghostly figure smiled, his expression softening into a wistful, loving look. Beckoning, he began to walk away from her. “Forral, wait!” Aurian pulled herself up on her staff and limped hastily after him, following him into the shadows of the abandoned city.
She couldn’t catch him. No matter how fast Aurian tried to hobble, Portal’s shade kept the same tantalizing distance between them, though he never went out of her sight. At last he stopped, turning toward her, and she realized that they had reached the mysterious cone-shaped edifice that was the center and focus of Dhiammara. The humming power that emanated from the structure seemed to vibrate within her very bones, but she kept her eyes fixed on the beloved figure of Forral. She limped toward him, her hand outstretched, longing to touch him once more.
“Don’t!” The warning was sharp enough to halt her, though Forral’s voice had been gentle. He shook his head, his expression one of deepest sorrow. “You can’t touch me, lass. I’m breaking rules as it is, coming to you like this.” He smiled ruefully. “We were never ones for rules, were we, you and I?”
“But I want to be with you!” Her voice caught on a sob.
“I know. Oh, my dearest love, how I’ve missed you! But I don’t begrudge you your life, and that of our child. Besides, you bear a grave responsibility. The times ahead won’t be easy, love, but I know you’ll manage.” His face shone with pride for her. “You’ve the courage and determination to succeed, you and young Anvar.”
Forral’s words grew gradually fainter as he spoke. His shade seemed to be dissolving, drifting away from her like smoke on the wind. “Don’t leave me!” Aurian cried in anguish, as his image faded.
“I’m being called back.”
His voice was distant now. “Take care of our babe, love . . . Remember ... I love you . . . But I’m gone . . .”
“No!” Aurian flung herself forward to the space where he had stood. “I love you too, Forral,” she whispered. Leaning her head against the cool, tingling wall of the building, she gave way to her heartache, her body shaking with sobs.
Aurian never knew how long she wept there. But it was not long. As her tears fell on the smooth wall of green crystal, the humming began to increase in volume and pitch. The Mage, her thoughts filled with Forral, never noticed—until a door snapped open abruptly in the stone beneath her, pitching her headlong inside.
“Oh!” Aurian sat up, wiped her eyes, and looked around. She was in a wide corridor that had been carved out of the gem. Its interior glowed with a dim green light. The air was stale, and heavy with an oddly spicy scent, but it was freshening rapidly as the cold, thin air of the plateau whispered through the open portal. Once again she felt the living mind within this place, the sense of an alien power that tugged at her, urging her farther within. The Mage resisted, wanting only to remain where she was, to hug the precious memory of her meeting with Forral to her as she might clutch at a dagger driven into her own breast. But the power was persistent, and Forral had told her in no uncertain terms that she had responsibilities.