She shook her head. “Parric, you’ve been my friend for a long time now, but if you can’t deal with this, it’s not my problem. I came to terms with Forral’s death in my own time—and if that time isn’t the same as yours then I’m sorry, but it’s not your life. It has nothing to do with you, or anyone else but myself and Anvar.”
“And if you truly cared about Aurian, you would rejoice that she’d found happiness again.”
Aurian spun around, startled by her lover’s voice, and caught a glimpse, out of the corner of her eye, of Parric leaping to his feet.
Anvar stood behind them. “As far as we know,” he went on softly to Parric, “you’re Aurian’s oldest surviving friend. Whatever you may think of me, the time has come to prove that friendship.”
“You stay out of this!” Parric snarled. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“You’re wrong,” Anvar said levelly, never taking his eyes from the older man. “Aurian’s happiness has everything to do with me—and the sooner you get used to the fact, the easier it will be for all of us.”
For a moment the air was thick with tension between them—then Parric exploded in anger. “I don’t have to take that kind of talk from a former Magefolk drudge!” He elbowed Anvar roughly aside. “Get out of my way!”
Anvar grabbed hold of his arm, his eyes flashing fire and ice. “No, but you do have to take it from one who is Mageborn in his own right, and Aurian’s soul mate besides.”
Parric tore himself away with an incoherent shout of anger, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Stop this madness—both of you!” Aurian leapt between them. She turned her cold gaze on the seething cavalrymaster. “For shame, Parric,” she said softly but clearly. “What would Forral think? This would sadden him more than anything that has happened since Miathan’s evil began.”
She held out her hands to him, her grim expression softening. “Apart from Forral, you and Maya were the first Mortal friends I ever had. As a warrior, you know what it’s like to lose loved ones in battle, but you also know that life must—and does—go on.” She took a deep breath. “If you care about me at all, you should be thanking Anvar, not blaming him—for without him I would not be here today. Not only has he saved my life on countless occasions, but it was Anvar who gave me the will to live on after Forral’s death.” She turned to her soul mate with a crooked grin. “He was infuriatingly insistent about it, as a matter of fact—right from that very first night when we fled downriver, and he wouldn’t let me drown us in the weir…”
Parric’s hand dropped from his sword hilt. “You—you were going to drown yourself?” He looked accusingly at Anvar. “Is that true?”
Anvar shrugged. “She had a bloody good try,” he admitted. “And, frankly, it wasn’t the last time.” He smiled apologetically at his soul mate, but she was nodding in support.
“Half the time I didn’t even realize what I was doing when I behaved so rashly,” she said, “but Anvar always took care of me. He knew me better than I did myself.”
Parric looked from one Mage to the other for a long moment, his face expressionless—but Aurian was relieved to see that the ugly flush of anger had vanished from his skin. Rubbing his hand across his face, he shrugged and sighed—then reached out to grasp the Mage’s outstretched hands. “I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t realize it was so bad for you. Can you forgive such a daft old bugger?”
“Oh, Parric!” Aurian pulled him into a hug. “You do yourself an injustice—I wouldn’t say you were particularly old,” she added with a sly chuckle.
The cavalrymaster’s roar of laughter broke the last of the tension that had gripped them all. “That’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed, at any rate,” he snorted. “That bloody wicked tongue of yours is as sharp as ever!”
“I don’t think I’ve changed that much,” Aurian protested. “I haven’t really, have I?”
Parric shook his head. “No, not at heart, lass—though it’s taken me a long time to get that through my thick skull. You just grew up, that’s all—and you’ve grown so greatly in power that it frightened me, I suppose, though I couldn’t admit that to myself. It was easier to get angry instead, and blame Anvar, here… I never thought, until you just told me, that he might have made you want to keep on going after Forral was killed. What with everything that’s happened, you never did have time to tell me the entire story.”
“Maybe I had better tell you,” Anvar put in with a grin. “Some of her escapades would make your hair stand on end.”
“Do you mind?” the balding cavalrymaster exploded. “Bloody Mages—you’re as bad as she is!” He held out his hand to Anvar. “I’m sorry, lad, for what I said to you. After the way the others, especially that mad bitch Meiriel, behaved, I suppose I was a bit wary of suddenly finding yet another Mage on my hands. But I was impressed with the way you stood up to me. I never really got to know you in the old days, but Forral always said you were a good sort. I should have trusted his judgment—and Aurian’s.”
“Yes, you should have,” Aurian said. “But we’ve all been through a lot these last months, Parric. I’m sure we can let you off with one mistake,” she added with lofty condescension.
“Let me off? Why, you…” Parric spluttered indignantly—then saw her smirk at having baited him so successfully, in an echo of the old game they had played so long ago, back at the Nexis Garrison.
Aurian raised an eyebrow. “Got you, Parric. You owe me a beer!” she crowed.
“Not again,” Parric groaned. “I’ll have to remain in your debt until we get back to Nexis—if I haven’t settled the score by then,” he threatened, laughing with the Mages.
Chiamh, watching the three of them walking back to his tower together, was relieved to see that they seemed to have settled their differences, whatever they had been. Sometimes the peculiar ways of these Outlanders baffled him beyond belief, but he had grown very fond of them all in a short time.
“Ho, Chiamh,” Parric called. “Have you got any of that wicked mead you brew? I think the occasion calls for a cup or two.”
Aurian laid a hand on his arm, her face suddenly sobering. “Not now,” she warned. “We have no time to spare for drinking—we’re still in considerable trouble. Anvar and I have a task of our own to perform with Chiamh, and then you and he must go down to the valley gates and give our decision to the Elders of the Xandim.”
“Too true, alas,” Chiamh interrupted. “And worse—I must permit Phalihas to resume his human shape, so that he can undergo the trial of tonight’s vigil. The risk of treachery will be greatest at that time.” He shuddered. “Once Phalihas is changed back to human form, there will be no further need for the Xandim to spare me. Windeye or not, I will be lucky to escape with my life.”
“You’ll be all right,” Anvar said firmly. “Aurian and I will shield you.”
“Indeed we will,” Aurian agreed. “But before we do anything else, we must have Schiannath’s agreement. Suppose he doesn’t want to be Herdlord?”
“I think you need have no fears on that score,” Chiamh said wryly. “Nonetheless, it is time we asked him.”
“You want me to do what?” Schiannath looked at the four—Aurian, Anvar, Chiamh and Parric—who were ranged before him, and realized that his jaw was still hanging open in sheer disbelief. He closed his mouth quickly, but his mind was still reeling. “You would really give me another chance to become Herdlord?” he repeated their offer, unable to assimilate all the implications. “You can truly do this, and the Xandim will accept it?”
“If you are Challenging as an elected substitute for the current Herdlord, it is within the Law,” Chiamh replied. “They must accept it—but they will not like it.”
“They don’t have to bloody well like it,” Aurian put in. “I just want to be sure that you are happy with the decision, Schiannath. I won’t have you pressured. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? Have you considered the risks involved? Chiamh says that last time—”