by Maggie Furey
‘Foolish girl.’ Aelwen shook her head. ‘All the years she was growing up she fancied herself in love with Ferimon, and now, when she is grieving and vulnerable, along he comes, suddenly finding her attractive even though he barely spared a glance for her before.’
‘It is as if she’s under his spell,’ Cordain said. ‘He is isolating her from all other influences. She refuses to listen to us any more - not even to me, and I am afraid to keep trying, for the more I persist, the angrier she grows. I am hoping that you can get through to her, Aelwen. If you cannot, then no one else has a hope of influencing her, and we are lost.’
‘If she’s alone with me, in the presence of her father, maybe I’ll stand a chance,’ the Horsemistress replied. ‘That’s why I asked her to meet me here.’
Cordain nodded. ‘Then I will leave you now. May you be successful, Aelwen - for all our sakes.’
Tiolani paused outside Hellorin’s chamber. ‘But why did Aelwen ask to meet me here?’ she repeated to Ferimon. ‘Why not the stables, as usual?’ She hated her father’s sickroom, though she dutifully visited him for several hours every day. It hurt her to see him lying there: that helpless stillness struck Hellorin’s daughter to the heart, and filled her with guilt. Full well she knew that, were he back on the throne, he would never permit her association with Ferimon. Because of this, she had not pushed as hard as she might for an answer from the healers.
Ferimon, clearly mistaking the reason for her hesitation, took her arm. ‘Come, my dearest. You have nothing to fear from your father’s Mistress of Horse. You are sovereign here.’
‘Indeed. And if I must, I shall prove it to her before this day is out.’ With no way to back down without looking weak and foolish, she took a deep breath, and nodded to the guards to open the door.
When Tiolani entered the chamber, Aelwen got to her feet and bowed respectfully, but the girl did not miss the flash of annoyance, glimpsed then swiftly veiled, at the sight of Ferimon.
‘My Lady,’ the Horsemistress said in a tight, controlled voice. ‘I requested to meet with you alone.’
‘And I decided to deny your request.’ Tiolani’s chin took on an arrogant tilt, and her voice was cold and hard with defiance. ‘Ferimon is my most trusted and valued advisor. Anything you wish to say to me, you can say in front of him.’
‘Very well.’ Aelwen could be defiant too - but in her case her words emerged with the quiet force of assertion. ‘Since you raise the subject, it is of your advisors that I wish to speak.’ She gestured to the chair beside her. ‘Come, sit by me, my dear. Let us have a comfortable talk, as I used to do so often with your mother.’
Oh, but that Mistress of Horse was cunning. Tiolani ground her teeth and strove to keep her annoyance from showing on her face. There were only two chairs in the room, and the bed was inaccessible because of the time spell, so that if she sat down with Aelwen, Ferimon would be isolated and plainly superfluous. And as for dragging her mother into this business - that was a low blow!
She answered Aelwen’s blandly innocent smile with one that was barely more than a grimace. ‘We will stand, Horsemistress. This will not take long.’
Without a hint of her emotions showing, Aelwen shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ That gambit having failed, she went straight to the attack - or that was the way it seemed to Hellorin’s daughter.
‘Tiolani, Cordain tells me that you have dismissed all of your father’s counsellors.’ She gestured at the recumbent figure of the Forest Lord. ‘I have known your father well for many years - from long before you were born - and you can trust me when I say that he would be saddened and dismayed by your actions. He trusted those advisors implicitly, and with good reason. My dear girl, do you not see how much easier they could make your life? A vast responsibility has suddenly dropped upon your shoulders, but it was no different for Hellorin. Those very people whose counsel you are spurning helped to lift a good deal of his burden by taking care of so many of the small but important day-to-day details involved in governing the Phaerie realm.’
‘I don’t care about that. I—’
‘Then you should care.’ Anger flashed in Aelwen’s voice, like the edge of a bright blade that caught the sun. ‘There is more to ruling this land than spending all day mooning over a lover and all night riding out to bloody slaughter with the Hunt. Did you know that this long, cold winter has destroyed a large part of the moonmoth population, and that our silk harvest this year will be the smallest in recorded history? Did you know that dozens of disputes have arisen, both minor and major, that can only be mediated by the sovereign? Did you know that our people are becoming increasingly restive and concerned? Were you aware that your decision to close the borders is making life incredibly difficult for our merchants and traders? That we are already running out of certain goods, such as oil and wheat and herbs, that we normally obtain from outside?’
Tiolani felt her face grow hot as anger with a black and ugly twist of guilt rose up inside her, but Aelwen was still speaking.
‘Tiolani, these matters can all be dealt with. Be Hellorin’s true heir. Make him proud. Talk to Cordain and the other counsellors. Work with them to put this realm to rights, before matters deteriorate any further. Whatever you may have been led to believe-’ again there was that blade-flash of anger as she flicked a glance at Ferimon ‘-we are all on your side, and our only wish is to help you through these difficult times. We—’
‘Enough!’ Tiolani was surprised to hear how like her father she sounded. To her relief, Ferimon, silken smooth, slid into the ensuing silence.
‘The Lady Tiolani has noted your concerns, Horsemistress Aelwen, and you have her assurance that they will be dealt with in due course. Your advice on counsellors is well taken, however the Lady can appoint her own.’
‘I will appoint my own,’ Tiolani echoed, love and gratitude for his support glowing within her. Why had she not thought of that before? Ferimon was so clever. Feeling in control once more, like a ruler and not the guilty little girl that Aelwen had evoked, she waved a dismissive hand at the Horsemistress. ‘You have known me since I was a child, Aelwen, and I understand that you are only trying to help, but you are interfering in matters that are beyond you. You may return to your horses, and leave the rule of this realm safely in my hands.’
As she spoke, she called in mindspeech to her new bodyguards, recently appointed at Ferimon’s instigation. They had been standing just beyond the chamber doors and entered at her word, standing stiffly at attention. Their message was clear to everyone in the room. ‘You are dismissed, Aelwen, with our thanks.’
The Horsemistress was still outwardly calm, still keeping her temper reined, but her anger showed in her eyes, burning darkly in a bone-white face. Without a word, she walked to the door - then turned abruptly and pointed at Hellorin. ‘What will he say when he wakes, Tiolani? Will he think that you have honoured his trust? Will he be proud?’ She turned her gaze from the Forest Lord to Tiolani. ‘You know better,’ she said quietly, and left.
Tiolani turned and pounded the wall with her fists, weeping with rage. ‘How dare she? How dare she speak to me like that? She belongs in the stables. What does she know about ruling?’
Ferimon enfolded her in a comforting embrace. ‘Never mind her,’ he crooned, his voice cajoling, comforting. ‘Aelwen knows nothing. She is nothing. She is beneath your notice. And if there is any trouble within the realm, we are more than capable of finding it out and setting it to rights without the interference of a jumped-up dung-shoveller and that coterie of feeble old fools who used to be your father’s lapdogs. You have no need of them, dear one. You will be the greatest ruler the Phaerie have ever seen.’
Tiolani turned into his embrace and laid her head trustingly on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Ferimon, what would I do without you? Sometimes it feels as if you are the only one who understands me. Thank all the Fates that you are here.’
PART 2
TYRINELD
9
PORTENTS
&n
bsp; The seasons turned, in the wildwood and the lands beyond. Winter slunk away, defeated, and the warmer days returned. On the other side of the forest and far to the south of the Phaerie realm, the city of Tyrineld, jewel of the western coast and home of the Wizards, glimmered in the bright sun of early summer. In a garden in the northern sector of the city, a magpie took off from the branches of a cherry tree in a single long glide and swooped down to land on the high wall at the bottom of the lawn. There were voices coming from the lane on other side of the wall, and the bird looked down from its perch with bright, curious eyes. Two Wizards were passing by along the narrow back street: Bards, by the cut and purple colour of their robes. One of them, the woman, had fastened her robe at the neck with a glittering amethyst and silver brooch that the magpie, attracted by the flash and sparkle, eyed acquisitively.
‘I thought this was a short cut,’ the man was complaining. ‘You haven’t managed to get us lost in these back streets, have you? I haven’t the faintest idea where we are.’
‘Don’t worry,’ the woman replied. ‘We’re nearly there. This is the back of that blind girl’s house.’
The magpie lifted off from the wall and glided down low over the couple, depositing a large splattering dropping on the woman’s head with a derisive cackle. Leaving curses and howls of disgust behind it, it turned and flew back up the garden, where a young woman, with a strong-boned face and abundant dark hair that carried a smouldering crimson spark in the sunlight, was seated beneath the cherry tree.
Iriana held out a hand and let the magpie perch there as she stroked its shining, iridescent black head. ‘That’ll teach them, won’t it?’ she said, switching her vision from the bird’s eyes to the eyes of the cat who sat on the table beside her. There was a brief instant of darkness, then the world took on an entirely different perspective as Iriana moved from avian vision to feline. ‘Blind indeed,’ she snorted. ‘That’s all they know.’
The Archwizard Cyran sat in the topmost chamber of his tower, all his attention fixed on the silver mirror that rested on the table before him. The images from his scrying had faded, leaving only his own reflection: dark eyes and a bony nose in a long, mobile face lined with laughter and sorrow, all framed by his mane of silvering dark hair. The memory of the events he had just witnessed, however, was burned deep into his mind. Again! He clenched his fists until the fingernails bit into the palms. How many more times would he be tormented by the same dreadful vision? Shuddering, he rose from his chair and rubbed his eyes, as if to wipe away the lingering images he had seen in his mirror.
After a moment, the familiar room came back into focus: a spacious octagonal chamber with a floor of dark wood that had been burnished to a rich glow, and dark beams on the ceiling, carved with twining flowers and vines. The walls, painted a warm shade of cream, were obscured by bookshelves overflowing with volumes and racks of scrolls, diagrams and maps pinned in any available space, and cabinets containing all sorts of paraphernalia including a selection of wines and the ingredients for several sorts of tea, including taillin, a fragrant drink made from the leaves of a bush that grew locally, which was the staple stimulant of the Wizardfolk. There was a desk and a long table that could be used for work, or eating, or meetings and conferences, and the north-western wall had a fireplace which, during these summer days when a fire was not necessary, contained an illusion of flickering flames. Golden light flooded in through the four great floor-to-ceiling windows with their broad, balustraded stone balconies that looked out north, south, east and west over Tyrineld.
Cyran poured himself a goblet of crimson wine. Gripping the cup with both hands to offset the slight tremor in his fingers, he drank deeply, as if in hope that the welcome warmth could counteract the chill of fear that settled in his heart whenever the visions appeared. In an attempt to calm himself, he turned his back on the table with its silver mirror, walked across to the eastern window and looked out at his home.
The city hugged the coastline around two deep coves defined by three promontories, with the bay to the south encompassing both the seaport and the mouth of the Tyrin River. At various locations around the bays were the eight Luens, spacious complexes of elegant old buildings, centres of learning and excellence that covered every aspect of Wizardly life. Ariel’s Tower, the soaring edifice housing the Archwizard and his administrative staff, was perched above the seaport on a high, rocky cape. Occupying a similar position on the northern promontory was the Luen of the Academics, the centre of Wizardly knowledge and learning. The Luens of the Healers and the Spellweavers were also located there, whereas the Bards, including the artists and weavers of tales, had gravitated to the long, narrow cape to the south, building their Luen there and colonising the crumbling old mansions which had once, before the district fell out of fashion, been the homes of the merchants who berthed their vessels on the opposite side of the bay.
The southern bay was thronged with ships, its extensive docks swarming with Wizards, mostly sea captains or the richly robed merchants, whose Luen was nearby. The humans were even more numerous: the fishermen, the lowly ships’ crewmen and the half-naked stevedores unloading cargo. This was the commercial area of the city, with its countless shops and markets, and the Luen of Artisans was also near the centre. The Luen of Warriors, however, was set apart from the others, high on the slopes above the city’s outskirts.
Around the bays, Tyrineld had expanded into a tangle of narrow streets lined with beautiful snow-white houses that embraced the tranquil blue ocean and climbed the hillsides beyond. The Wizards’ homes were interspersed with trees, parks and gardens that were a mass of blooms in any season of the year. The city was old, its stones steeped in history and learning and peace. It looked as though it would last for ever. Until the dreadful day two years ago when the visions had first appeared, Cyran had always believed it would.
It had begun with such a small thing - the Archwizard had misplaced a book and, having turned his study upside down, he’d suspected that he’d left it behind when he had been reading in the garden the previous day. Too busy (or too lazy, if he was being honest) to go and hunt for it, he had prepared his silver mirror and sat down at the table to scry for the lost volume. Once he’d found it, a small apport spell would soon have it back where it belonged.
Holding the image of the book in his mind, Cyran had gazed into the shimmering glass. Sure enough, it was in the Academy gardens, lying on his favourite bench among the willows by the ornamental lake. He tutted to himself. The Great Library of Tyrineld was the most extensive collection of knowledge and wisdom in the entire civilisation of the Magefolk. Its contents were a trust handed down through each generation of Wizards, and the careless mishandling of one of the precious tomes by the Archwizard himself was hardly setting a good example. Sharalind, the Chief Archivist, tall and stern, with brown hair that was never quite tidy and an arresting, high-cheekboned face, was the most feared and formidable being in the entire city - and, incidentally, Cyran’s consort. She would have his hide if she found out.
Hurriedly, Cyran had banished the scrying. With a negligent snap of his fingers, he apported the missing volume back to his desk and gave the dew-spotted leather covers a hasty wipe with his sleeve. As he did so, his eye was caught by a flash of colour in the silver mirror. He turned towards it, with a frown that was a mixture of puzzlement and irritation. He hadn’t lost control of a scrying since his student days. Then he saw that the images in the glass had changed. Frozen with horror, unable to tear his eyes from the dreadful scenes before him, he watched the destruction of his beloved city, and saw the entire Magefolk civilisation tear itself apart in bloody conflict.
The visions had come to an end in profound darkness, as though night had fallen on the era of the Magefolk. For a long time, Cyran had simply sat, his face in his hands, unaware that tears were leaking between his fingers. Then suddenly he straightened, and wiped the salty drops from his face. Leaping to his feet, he hurled the mirror out of the open casement, and heard it shat
ter into jagged splinters on the flagstones of the courtyard below. Shuddering, he closed the window with a bang. The warning had been well taken. The catastrophe had not happened yet. Maybe it could be averted altogether. At any rate, there would be time to prepare.
And there had been time, Cyran thought, bringing his mind back to the present. In the two years since the first of the visions had come upon him, he had been working tirelessly to make provision for the worst. His first action had been to warn the leaders of the other Magefolk races - the Dragonfolk, the Winged Folk and the aquatic Leviathan - for the calamity he’d witnessed had threatened to destroy them all. At first they had taken him seriously, but two years later the world seemed to be continuing on its tranquil, ordered course, and Cyran could sense that doubts were beginning to creep in. Their main objection lay in the fact that so far, he had been the only one to see these visions. Surely, they argued, if he had experienced a true foretelling, then they should also have received a similar warning. Cyran hoped with all his heart that they were right. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to persist, though the other leaders had insisted that he keep the information to himself for the present, to avoid spreading unnecessary panic among the Magefolk races.
