by Maggie Furey
About two-thirds of the way down the escarpment a hanging turret had been carved by magic from the living rock. Round in shape with a rather fanciful, conical, pointed roof, it was just large enough for two small, compact rooms, one above the other. It had once been the home of Endarl, a legendary Wizard of long ago who had relinquished all communication with his fellows, in order to concentrate entirely, and without distractions, upon his magic. Anything he needed he apported down to his little haven, and as the years passed, the Wizards of Tyrineld finally began to forget that he was even there – until at last they felt his passing. He had left behind him a vast collection of writings that had heralded some remarkable advances in the practice of magic, including the invention of the spell to take a subject or an object out of time, and his more complex works were still being investigated by the Luen of Spellweavers to this very day.
The solitary door of the turret led directly from the bottom of the stairway into the upper chamber. Tinagen, Daina and Lanrion let themselves in, and Aldyth saw the blue globes of their magelight pause, then vanish inside as they ducked beneath the low lintel. He had just started to move again, and was still about two dozen steps up from the turret door when he realised that all was lost. The warning silver shimmer of magic flashed like a lighthouse beam through the open doorway and he froze, heart thudding in his chest. He shrank back against the cliff face like a hunted animal as the sound of voices came from below.
‘Got them!’
‘Some conspirators – they made it easy for us, coming to this lonely place.’
‘Too true. It certainly came as a shock to Callia. Did you see her face when we arrested her?’
‘And since we took her out of time so that she couldn’t warn the others, that expression’s going to be there for quite a while.’ There was the sound of cruel laughter.
‘Be quiet, the lot of you.’ It was Omaira’s voice, sharp with its customary snap of authority. ‘Before you start getting too cocky, just remember that if Galiena hadn’t decided to change sides and join us, we wouldn’t have found out about this.’
‘So that’s how you knew.’ Tinagen’s voice was filled with venom. Aldyth had never heard him sound so furious. ‘And what was Galiena’s price? That Sharalind would reinstate her as head of the Luen – on condition, of course, that she becomes your puppet?’
‘Something like that.’ Aldyth knew Omaira very well, and knew that when she used that particular tone of voice it came accompanied by a wry expression and a shrug. ‘As soon as Sharalind decides that she can truly be trusted.’
‘In other words, you’re holding it over her head as a kind of blackmail, or a bribe, to keep her under your control,’ Tinagen said scornfully. ‘I’ve known you all my life, Omaira. We haven’t seen eye to eye on a number of matters over the years, but I never thought I’d see you turn traitor to you own kind.’
‘What kind is that? You mean the Heads of the Luens? As far as I’m concerned, Tinagen, all the Wizardfolk are my own kind, and as head of the Warrior Luen, I’m pledged to protect them. You’ve got to face facts: if the Phaerie killed poor Avithan, it’s going to mean war whether you like it or not. It’s not unrealistic to be prepared—’
‘Don’t you dare use that poor young man’s death as an excuse! You’ve been itching for something like this for years. It’s not a defence that Sharalind is preparing, and well you know it. She plans to start a war over Avithan’s death. She wants blood, nothing less will satisfy her, and she’ll drag the whole realm of the Wizards down with her. It’s one thing to defend oneself against an aggressor, but it’s another thing to be that aggressor. That’s something I won’t be party to. And what’s more, when the members of the other Luens hear about your ambush tonight, I think some of Sharalind’s supporters will start to have doubts of their own. No matter how much you try to justify betraying your colleagues, people are going to start wondering when they’ll be next.’
‘Why, you sanctimonious old windbag!’ It was the hot-headed Vaidel. ‘Not everybody is as cowardly as you. How can you even live with yourself when—’
‘Excuse me, Vaidel,’ someone interrupted.
‘What?’ Aldyth could just imagine his anger swinging round to impale the speaker.
‘Er – I thought Galiena said there were supposed to be four.’
‘Shit!’ Omaira’s voice cut through the keening gale. ‘Where’s Aldyth? He can’t be far away. We were definitely told that all of the dissenters were meeting here tonight. The old dodderer probably lagged behind the others. Get up that staircase quick and find him, because if we don’t, and he carries word of what happened here back to the city, we’ll lose the trust and support of the other Luens.’
‘Not to mention that Sharalind will have our hides.’ This time, it was Vaidel who spoke. Then several figures emerged, one by one, through the narrow doorway, and Aldyth realised that he had no hope of escape. There was no time to get back up the cliff before they caught him. He couldn’t fight them all – he was a scholar, not a warrior, and he couldn’t apport – he was too old now to manage the considerable expenditure of energy involved. Suddenly an image of Chalisa leapt into his mind. This time she did not urge him to stay, but smiled and beckoned, her face aglow with love. Was it a true vision, or his imagination reflecting the dearest wish of his heart? Aldyth did not care.
‘There he is!’ The cry went up from below him, all too close. ‘Get him.’
Taking a last, deep breath, Aldyth opened his arms as if to embrace the dark, stormy night and the crashing waves, and took a mighty leap off the edge of the cliff, arcing out high and wide before arrowing down into the sea.
Ionor had his own special way of avoiding storms, both the weather sort and the gathering storm of conflict that was threatening to tear the city, the Wizardfolk and even his own lifelong friendships apart. He had never believed that such a chasm could open up in his own tight-knit group of companions. Melisanda was, like him, vehemently against the idea of war. Thara also, but he could sense, occasionally, that she was beginning to waver. Yinze and Chathak, both with loved ones to avenge, were openly welcoming the chance to strike back and were backing Sharalind wholeheartedly. They were already training with the Luen of Warriors, and were in no mood to hear talk of peace and moderation.
The Wizard was beginning to wish that he had remained with the Leviathan, and had never returned to Tyrineld. In a few short days the atmosphere had changed out of all recognition. This was no longer a gentle-paced city devoted to beauty, creativity and learning. Suddenly, everyone accepted war as a foregone conclusion, whether they were for or against. Fear and a kind of sick excitement stalked the streets; it was as though the conflict had already reached into every home and family. He felt increasingly isolated here; alienated from even his closest friends. For the first time in his life he was bitterly at odds with Chathak and Yinze. He was grieving for Avithan too – his friend’s death had torn a deep and painful wound in his heart – but fighting the Phaerie and getting a whole multitude of other Wizards killed wouldn’t bring him back and, Ionor was sure, it was the last thing that Avithan himself would have wanted. Thara and Melisanda, though they concurred with him, were both grimly busy now. The Healers were devising strategies and making preparations to cope with the carnage that must surely come, and Thara’s cadre of the Nurturers, those concerned with growing things, were working themselves to exhaustion trying to accelerate the maturing of every harvestable crop, to feed Omaira’s army and increase the city’s stockpile of supplies.
Ionor had never felt so lonely, not even during his childhood. Except for his friends, he had never known a true family. His parents had conceived him in a starburst of passion that faded as quickly as it flared. His mother, Laranel, was a trading captain, highly placed in the Luen of Merchants. She commanded her own ship and was famed for her daring, both in the voyages she made and the ventures that sprang from them. His father, Nolior, was a Bard, well respected for his researches into ancient ballads an
d poems that cast light on some of the more obscure, barbaric and little-documented periods of the Wizards’ ancient history.
This mismatched couple had met when Nolior took passage on Laranel’s ship to the far-off Apiun Islands, to investigate some ancient inscriptions that had been found there. Their shipboard romance was a brief flowering of lust, never meant by either of them to last any longer than the voyage itself. Unfortunately it coincided with the passage through the Dead Zone, an area in the tropics where an undersea volcano had thrown up a strange, dull grey metallic ore that had an inhibiting effect on magic.
A Wizard called Zathbar, from the Luen of Artificers, had discovered much about the material, and had even gone so far as to fabricate a pair of bracelets from the vile stuff, but it was so unpleasant and dangerous to work with that no one else wanted to have anything to with it. Zathbar, horrified by what he had wrought, had buried the bracelets in the wild, hot, inhospitable lands of the Jewelled Desert, far to the south, and thankfully moved on to other things.
Only the Dead Zone remained – slap-bang in the middle of the north-south trade route. Mortal sailors were unaffected, but the Wizard captains got through the area as fast as they could, thanked their stars when they reached the other side, and did their best to forget about it. Only when Nolior and Laranel had gone their separate ways, and Laranel discovered, to her utter horror, that she was pregnant, did she realise that the Dead Zone had affected the spells with which Wizards controlled their fertility.
Laranel did what any Wizard did who didn’t want their life’s work to be hampered by a child. She had the baby and left him in the House of Children, where Wizard offspring were brought up communally by volunteers who came mainly from the Luens of Nurturers and Healers. Neither she nor Ionor’s father had taken any further interest in him and he had grown up as a City Brat, as the occupants of the House of Children were colloquially known – as, indeed, had Melisanda. Her parents were both itinerant Healers who dedicated their lives to treating Wizards in far-flung, scattered communities. They, at least, had loved their daughter and always spent time with her on their occasional visits to Tyrineld, but the wilderness was no place to bring up a child, especially one whose father and mother were exposed to so much infection and disease. When Melisanda was a first-year student with the Luen of Healers, both her parents had perished when an epidemic decimated a backwoods settlement. Her grieving had brought her closer to her circle of friends; just one more bond to add to the many that they shared.
Now it seemed that those bonds were already fraying and breaking, leaving Ionor bereft. He had started the night sitting alone in the house he had shared for so long with Avithan and the others. Yinze and Chathak, grimly purposeful, were out training at the Luen of Warriors, and Thara and Melisanda were busy with their own concerns, for the Healers and Nurturers had many preparations to make for the conflict to come. Ionor belonged to the Academy, the Luen of Academics, who had nothing practical to do in preparation for war – nor, he suspected, would Aldyth allow his people to become involved in any of the planning, such was the strength of his opposition.
And what about me? Will my own opposition stand so firm, if put to the test? Will I join those who refuse to go to war, or will I swallow my scruples and go along, because Yinze and Chathak are going, and I want to be with them?
Ionor didn’t want to abandon them. He felt sure that their chances of survival would be greater if he was with them, if all three of them were together.
But what of my own chances?
Was it cowardice not to become involved, or common sense?
He needed to escape all this: to step away for a while, and allow his thoughts to settle. Maybe even talk the matter over with a friend whose perspective was less trammelled by so many personal ties and conflicting loyalties. Luckily, such a friend existed. Lituya. Suddenly it seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip away from Tyrineld and all its worries, and head for the ocean to be with the Leviathan.
The streets were quiet that night, with the wild weather keeping everyone snug indoors. Ionor decided to enter the water in the harbour where, thanks to the protection of the long piers and breakwaters, the sea was relatively calm. The quays were deserted, with the boats moored snug in their haven, battened down against the storm. Shivering in the brutal blasts of wind and driving rain, the Wizard took off his outer clothes and hid them, wrapped into a bundle in his cloak, behind a pile of lobster pots in an open-fronted shed. As always, he put back his belt, which held a long knife in a sheath, and fastened it securely round his waist. Beneath the ocean, a tool or a weapon could mean his survival.
Ionor looked out at the ocean, wild and powerful in the storm, and his heart beat faster with excitement. Then, taking a deep breath, he sprinted through the downpour to the edge of the jetty, and made a clean dive into the water.
As he wrapped the undersea spell around him like an old, familiar mantle, Ionor no longer felt cold or wet. His wizardly night vision worked just as well underwater as it did on land, and he could see quite clearly where he was going. He left the shelter of the harbour, swimming strongly underwater and keeping near the bottom to escape the worst of the tumult on the surface, but here, so close to the land, it was impossible to avoid the violence of the great waves that came churning and crashing in. The chaotic currents hurled him this way and that, and the water was turbid with sand that had been stirred up from the sea bed.
Using all the strength and skill he had developed during his months with the Leviathan, Ionor fought his way through the turmoil, until he reached the place where the shelving coast dropped into the depths and he could swim down to a level where everything was calm and still. The Wizard felt his spirits grow lighter. It was such a relief not to have to fight the ocean any more, and such a joy to be back in this, his adopted element that was coming more and more to feel like home. All he needed to make things perfect was Lituya’s company. Concentrating on the image of his friend, he sent out a call in mindspeech through the ocean depths.
Clearly Lituya was asleep, as the Wizard had to call for a moment or two before he got an answer. Eventually, however, he was rewarded with a reply. ‘Ionor?’ The mental tones were fuzzy with sleep. ‘What is it?’ The thought patterns sharpened with alarm. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Lituya, don’t worry,’ Ionor cursed his own lack of consideration. Just because he couldn’t sleep, it didn’t give him the right to go round disturbing everyone else. ‘I’m sorry I woke you. I was just feeling lonely and worried and I needed your company.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say so? I’ll come at once.’ There was a moment’s pause, then he continued. ‘It will be good to take some time just for ourselves but also – well, there’s something I need to discuss with you.’
‘What? What’s wrong?’ Now it was Ionor’s turn to feel a stab of alarm, and the Leviathan’s turn to comfort him. ‘Don’t you worry either. We’ll talk about it when I see you. I’m sure it’s not beyond the ingenuity of the Magefolk to solve.’ Again, there was a slight hesitation. ‘Ionor, I’m glad you came tonight. I’ve missed you.’
‘Thank you, Lituya. You’re a true friend. I’ve missed you too – I hadn’t realised how much, until tonight. I’m heading into the southern bay now, so I’ll meet you there.’
Ionor swam on, blessing the Wizards’ night vision that allowed him to navigate these dark waters in safety. Through the spell that had been formulated for him to live among the Leviathan, he could glide along with little effort, his body protected from the changes in pressure and the profound chill of the depths.
In the southern bay, where the cliffs plunged straight down into the ocean, a kelp forest grew; a multitude of slender stems with long, elegant fronds growing all along their length that swayed and swirled like dancers in the shifting current. The strands of the giant seaweed stretched up and up, taller than trees, rooted on the sea bed and reaching right up to the warm water and bright light at the surface. It felt sheltered and co
mfortable among the waving ribbons, and the Wizard settled there to await his friend. Using an old sea-otter trick he took hold of one of the stems and twirled himself in the water so that it wrapped two or three times round his body, anchoring him in place. It felt so comfortable here, to be held gently without danger of drifting, to be cradled by the murmuring ocean that rocked him gently on its shifting tides.
Ionor had not realised how difficult life had become for him up on the surface in Tyrineld. Now that he had escaped, if only for a time, all the worry, grief and conflict that stalked the city, he realised that he was utterly worn out and weary. Gradually his knotted muscles relaxed and the tension seeped out of him, dissolving in the ocean currents that slid like silk around his body. Cradled in the kelp, he drifted, drowsed and finally fell asleep . . .
Only to be awakened by a shattering splash and a clamour of voices, as something large and heavy hit the water and plummeted to the bottom. Shocked and shaken, the Wizard flailed among the kelp fronds, almost throttling himself as he tried to get free from the entangling stem he’d wrapped around himself. When he finally managed to get loose he swam towards the point of impact where the object had entered the water, which was still marked by a swirl of spreading foam. His common sense told him he was heading in the wrong direction, for surely the projectile could only have been a boulder – and judging by the size of the splash it must have been a large one – that had been dislodged from the cliff by the storm, and by heading in closer to the shoreline he ran the risk of being hit by any further falling rocks. Nevertheless his curiosity, that fatal flaw in the Wizardly character that had caused them so much trouble over the ages, nagged at him until it drove him forward. He followed the trail of bubbles downward, until there, floating in a tangle of kelp strands, he saw a dark shape below. Ionor’s heart gave a lurch.
