Davorshan had the advantage of height—Maya had taught D’arvan that much. Grasping his blade in a hand that was suddenly wet and slick with sweat, the Mage began to back slowly down the stairs, feeling his way with careful feet since he knew better than to take his eyes from his brother, even for an instant. Davorshan’s hatred scorched into his brain—like the rage of the forest, but deeper, closer—far more intimate. They had been linked for so many years—how well his brother knew him! Inexorably, Davorshan’s malice ate into his mind, -working on his fears and self-doubts, chipping away at his confidence and courage. “Half-breed!” his brother spat. “Spineless, gutless, powerless mongrel! Did you really think it would work,
D’arvan, running away to hide behind the Lady’s skirts? And what have we here?”
His merciless, rummaging will unearthed a memory—to D’arvan, the most precious of all. “So!” Davorshan’s cruel laughter mocked him. “What have you been up to, brother mine? Rutting with a little Mortal bitch, since you can’t manage anything better! Is she any good, D’arvan? Perhaps I’ll try her, after I’ve killed you. Or maybe I’ll do it first, so you can watch! Where is she, eh? Where have you hidden your Mortal slut?”
Red rage flooded D’arvan’s mind. His hand, holding the sword, began to shake. Yet Maya’s training held firm. She had taught him better than to be gulled by a transparent gibe. Instead he began to gather his powers as he continued to back away, wondering which aspect of his Earth-magic he could use against his brother. The plants upstairs were too small, but . . . Could he bring the vines that enveloped the tower to his aid? If they could break through a window—
“Oh, no you don’t!” Davorshan’s voice was a snarl. “I won’t waste my time on a contest of magic, D’arvan—not on her ground!”
“Really?” D’arvan lifted his hand, ready to strike.
“I warn you! Do you want to be responsible for Eilin’s death?”
D’arvan stopped in mid-gesture, his eyes flicking involuntarily past his brother to the top of the stairs.
“Well done.” Davorshan sneered. ^It has finally occurred to you! Had she been dead, you would have known it!”
“Where is she?” D’arvan cried. “What have you done to her?”
Davorshan shrugged, and held up his dripping sword. “Don’t depend on her coming to your aid, though you gave me no time to finish the job. But if you want to bring magic into this, remember where my talents lie. I can raise the waters of the lake to swamp this tower! And when the tower collapses, where will Eilin be, eh?”
“Bastard!” D’arvan grated through clenched teeth.
“No, brother. You’re the bastard. Eliseth told me that much. You’ve leeched my power all our lives—the power that should have rightfully been mine—and when I kill you it will all be mine! You should never have been born!”
So that was how Eliseth had subverted him! D’arvan felt his brother’s resentment, his burning greed and the unreasoning rage that consumed him. When it reached a crescendo, Davorshan would attack. He felt carefully with his foot for the next step down, and found it to be the broader landing of one of the tower rooms. The glimmerings of a plan came into his mind. He stretched his lips wide in a mocking grin. “Oh no, my brother, you’re wrong. Eilin told me the whole story. I’m the child of our mother’s love. She hated Bavordran, and she only had you to allay his suspicions. I may be the bastard, but you’re the one who should never have been born!”
“Liar!” Davorshan charged heedlessly down, his face twisted, his bloody sword flailing. D’arvan wrenched himself to one side, into the open doorway of the room, and stuck out his foot as he had seen Maya do only that morning. He felt the hot wrench of tortured muscles as his brother’s momentum twisted his leg to one side, unbalancing him—but as he fell, he heard thudding and clanging as Davorshan tumbled headlong down the metal staircase. It had worked! D’arvan used an upturned bench to help himself to his feet. Sweat sprang out on his brow as fire and ice lanced agonizingly up the injured leg, which would not bear his weight. He staggered, falling again.
Spitting out one of Maya’s favorite oaths, D’arvan pulled himself to the stairs and began to slide down, step by step, on his rump, as he and Davarshan had done so often as children. The memory hurt like a knife twisting in a wound, but childhood was over now, and the soul companion of those days had turned into a murdering monster. He had to get to the bottom to finish Davorshan, if yet he lived—for otherwise his brother would surely finish him.
By the time he reached the bottom, his face was soaked with sweat and tears. Davorshan lay facedown on the broad kitchen flags at the foot of the steps, unmoving. D’arvan prayed he might already be dead. The hilt of the sword was ice in his trembling hand as he perched on the lowest step, directly above his brother. “Oh, Gods,” he prayed, “please don’t force me to do this!” But Davorshan moaned just then, and stirred, rolling onto his back. Though his eyes were glazed, the hatred, unconquerable, still twisted his mind. Still and always. D’arvan faced it at last, and accepted. Lifting the sword high in both hands, he drove the point down through his brother’s heart—and felt pain unspeakable ram through his own breast as their minds linked for the last time. Screaming, he convulsed, his arms clutched round his chest as he doubled over.
“Brother ...” Davorshan’s broken whisper fled through D’arvan’s mind, as his brother’s soul fled his body. D’arvan felt the pain in his chest give way to the searing wrench that marked the passing of a Mage, A Mage who had died by his hand.
“D’arvan!” Maya’s gruff voice was a ray of light that pierced the dark well of the Mage’s grief. Numbly, he lifted his head to look at her. Dropping down beside him on the step, she put her arms around him. Tears, tears that he himself had been unable to shed^ flooded her face, and he knew she understood. Yet her voice, when she spoke, was surprisingly matter-of-fact. “You killed him.” It needed no answer.
“The way things stand, he won’t be the last,” Maya went on. “It’s never an easy thing, for most of us. It never should be. All we can do is try to distance ourselves a little and get on with our lives as best we can. But I promise you that never again will it be as bad as this first time. The worst is over now, love.”
D’arvan clung to her, oddly comforted by her blunt words. How like his Maya, to dispense compassion and common sense in the same breath. How lucky he was to have her, in all this ruin and death . . . “Eilin!” His voice cracked. “Maya, she’s upstairs. Hurt—badly, I think!”
“Seven bloody demons!” Maya leapt to her feet. “Where?”
“At the top.” He tried to get up, and sank back down again with a yelp of pain.
“You’re wounded?” She whirled back sharply.
“Wrenched my leg, doing that tripping move of yours. You go on^I’ll follow as best I can.”
Maya bit her lip, nodded, and fled upstairs.
D’arvan made slow and painful progress, hauling himself up by his good leg and the stair rail. He was only halfway up when he heard the ring of booted feet on the metal treads and
May a reappeared round the curve, abruptly stopping her headlong descent when she saw him. “She’s dying.”
Maya was right. D’arvan knew it as soon as he saw the Lady, who lay in the wreckage of her chamber like a crumpled bundle of rags. He had not known that one body could hold so much blood. It was everywhere, splattered and smeared across the bed and walls, pooled on the floor, soaking her robes that were rent and sliced in a dozen places. Her skin already held the pale translucence of imminent death. Maya propped him against the wall with his weight balanced on his good leg, and ran back to Eilin. The old D’arvan would have retched and turned his eyes away from the horror. The new D’arvan felt his guts twist—but with outrage. In one grim instant, his grief and guilt at killing Davorshan vanished. “I will not let this happen!” His voice sounded alien and distant, even to himself. “D’arvan, there’s nothing we can do for her.” Maya was on her knees beside Eilin, her voice choked with grief. “Even a Healer couldn’t—” “My father can.”