To Light a Candle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “But why can’t they just see that?” Jorade said miserably.

  “The High Council will never reverse itself,” Cilarnen said bitterly. “Not when it means doing so publicly. By now everyone”—he meant, as his listeners knew, all the Magebom—“knows about the decree to draw back the Borders to the City Walls. Lycaelon Tavadon was the only one who voted against the decree. That means that reversing the decree is endorsing the Arch-Mage, so they’ll never do it.”

  “So the City suffers … for petty politics,” Kermis said grimly.

  “Unless young men like yourselves—who love the City, and who set themselves above such things—will save her,” “Master Raellan” said.

  The six young Entered Apprentices regarded each other. What they’d done so far was serious, but if it came to light, they could expect no worse than a severe scolding—at the worst, a censure from the Council. What they were contemplating now, each of them knew, had far graver consequences.

  “We’ll meet here again on Light’s Day,” Kermis said. “I should be able to get the book we need by then. We can study it to figure out what materials and equipment we need to buy—or steal.” He looked at Cilarnen.

  “If anyone wants to back out, do it now,” Cilarnen warned. “Because once we start making umbrastone … well, there’s no going back.”

  “I’m in,” Jorade said.

  “You know I am,” Kermis said. “Light blast all politicians.”

  “And I,” Tiedor said. “For the City—and the Mages.”

  “I know what the stakes are better than any of you,” Margon said. “I won’t back out now.”

  “If you’re in, House Volpiril, so am I,” Geont said gruffly. “You’re twice the man your Light-damned father is.”

  “Thank you all,” Cilarnen said warmly. “Then we’ll meet back here on the day. And the Light go with you all.”

  ALL was proceeding perfectly, Anigrel thought to himself as he walked back toward House Tavadon. He was careful to take a more circuitous route than the boys, for they believed that “Master Raellan” was a younger son of a minor Mage House, and it would not do to have their illusions shattered. He might well wish to play this game again someday soon, with new players.

  And what a splendid game it was! Lycaelon would certainly be furious to discover additional plots against him among the Mages, and the foiling of this one would provide him with all the leverage he needed to take back control of the Council from that eternal pest Volpiril.

  And to further Anigrel’s ambitions as well …

  He reached the Mage Quarter, where no one would think it odd to find Undermage Anigrel upon the streets, even at this late hour, and a wave of his hand dispelled the glamourie, restoring his own natural appearance and that of his clothing. At length he achieved his own—or rather Lord Lycaelon’s—doorstep, passing between the stone mastiffs without incident, and a waiting servant hurried to open the door for him.

  “Good evening, Undermage Anigrel,” the butler said, bowing deferentially as he hastened to receive Anigrel’s cloak.

  “Good evening. Is the Arch-Mage at home?”

  “Arch-Mage Lycaelon is still at the Council House, Undermage Anigrel,” the butler said, bowing again.

  “In that case, have a tray with a light supper brought up to my rooms in two chimes. See that I am not disturbed until then.”

  Anigrel passed through the panel and ascended the staircase, his immediate thoughts on a hot bath and one of the exquisite meals served up by Lycaelon’s talented cook. Beyond that, there was much to do to ensure that the plot against the High Mages—such as it was—turned out satisfactorily.

  For some people, at least.

  TO create a measure of umbrastone took approximately three moonturns, once all conditions were right. And for all conditions to be right, as Cilarnen had discovered that Light-day, was one of the reasons that umbrastone was expensive, in addition to being proscribed.

  There were a lot of ingredients that went into its manufacture. Some of them were rare and difficult to acquire—certain herbs and flowers—while others, such as gold and sea-pearls, were merely expensive. And some were just peculiar, like fresh chicken eggs. It seemed a lot more like cooking than like any branch of the Art Magickal than Cilarnen had yet studied.

  Strangest of all, no spells seemed to be involved at any stage of the stone’s manufacture.

  “That’s because this is the Art Khemitic,” Kermis had explained when Cilarnen had questioned him. “It’s Proscribed, of course, but its essential doctrine holds that the objects of the natural world have an elemental nature possessed of innate qualities, which, when combined in specific amounts, can create objects with certain powers.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Geont had said, with a look of distaste.

  “It is,” Kermis answered with a thin smile. “There are more warnings in this book than spells. Looks like fun, though, if you don’t mind getting blown up.”

  “What do we do after we put all the things together?” Cilarnen had asked, trying to head off what had promised to be a lengthy debate.

  “They have to be kept in total darkness at a constant temperature for three moonturns in a sealed container inside a special brazier. The Khemiticists call it an athanor.”

  “An athanor?” Margon had said in surprise. “That’s a magickal tool? It’s just an oven. The Baker’s Guild uses them to extract oils from spicebark and finish delicate pastry. I can get one. They’re kind of big, though.”

  “How big?” Cilarnen had asked warily.

  Margon sketched a shape in the air with his hands.

  “Not too bad,” Tiedor said with relief. “My birth-father is a carter. He’ll let me borrow one of the carts and teams, and he won’t ask any questions if I tell him it’s Mage-business. I can drive a cart and team, too.” He regarded the rest of them, a faint smirk on his features, and Cilarnen felt a faint pang of … guilt? Relief?

  He’d always looked down on Tiedor—who hadn’t?—because of his Common blood. But it was just that—the fact that he came from the Commons and remembered what he’d learned there—that would make their plan work now.

  “That’s good then. And, Tiedor—thank you. I don’t think this would work without you.” He turned to the others. “We seem to have a plan. Margon will get us the athanor, Tiedor will get the cart to transport it here, Kermis will write out the list of materials that we need to make the umbrastone, and we’ll all work on getting them. We can work out the rest of our plan while we’re actually making the umbrastone.”

  IT was a good plan—Cilarnen had discovered, over the last several moonturns, that he had a talent for planning—and the first part of it went exactly as he intended. The athanor was acquired, installed, tested, and seasoned—both Margon and Kermis agreed on the necessity for that.

  Obtaining the ingredients for the recipe took far more ingenuity, though the six of them were wealthy by any standards but those of the Mageborn.

  But finally, almost two moonturns later, they were ready to begin.

  It had not been an easy time for Cilarnen. He had the disturbing feeling that his father was watching him more closely than he had for a long time, and the gossip he overheard in his work as an Entered Apprentice was not encouraging. Though the City was protected from inclement weather, the Delfier Valley was not. And outside the City, the autumn storms had been ferociously hard; Cilarnen did not precisely understand the details or the logic, but apparently because of the bad weather, the farmers were withholding the rest of their food, just as Margon had warned would happen.

  And what was the Council doing? Engaging in screaming debates (so it was rumored) as to whether—and if so, how—to continue its trade with the High Hills, now that it no longer had a Trading Outpost available in Nerendale. Would the caravans even be willing to come into Armethalieh as they had a generation ago? And if they were, would the Council be willing to allow them in?

  Well, they won’t have to. By spring, this will all b
e settled. I hope, Cilarnen told himself uneasily. He still wasn’t sure what they were going to do once they had the umbrastone. The making of the stuff had turned out to be so complicated that none of them had even begun to discuss the next phase. Deep down in his heart, he just hoped that the Council would see how serious things were, and understand that they had to take the Home Farms back.

  Perhaps he was going about this all wrong. Maybe he should just petition for a private audience with the Arch-Mage Lycaelon. It was every Mageborn’s right—a right rarely invoked, but still the law of the City. He could ask the Arch-Mage what to do.

  Tonight he’d been the first to arrive at their secret meeting place, and his train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of the others.

  “I’ve brought wine,” Geont said. “I think we’ll need it.”

  Kermis shuddered faintly. “Well, I’ve brought tea—and decent water.” He flourished a packet and a large flask. “Phastan Silvertip. I hope the pot’s clean.”

  “And I’ve brought the mixing bowl,” Jorade said, lifting a huge shallow container of pure gold from beneath his cloak and setting it on the shabby wooden table with a grunt. The rickety table creaked and shifted beneath the weight. “I borrowed it from the family chapel. Nobody will miss it—so long as it’s back before Morning Devotions, of course.”

  “It will be,” Kermis said. “And Tiedor?”

  “One dozen hen’s eggs, fresh from the hen and this morning’s market,” the young Entered Apprentice said. “The ways of Mages are mysterious,” he added with a grin. “The silly woman had no idea why I’d want to be down in the Fowl Market buying my own eggs. She fluttered as much as one of her own geese!”

  “Women!” Cilarnen agreed, dropping his own contribution into the bowl—eight ounces of white roses (heads only). The recipe had specified that they had to be cut precisely at sunrise without the use of metal, so Cilarnen had been unable to simply buy them in the Flower Market. Rather, he’d had to slip out of bed at an unspeakably early hour, make his way across the City to the Park, charm his way into one of the greenhouses with a tale of a youthful dare, and bribe one of the gardeners heavily to allow him to cut them with an ivory letter opener he’d sharpened for the purpose. And hope that nobody—like his father, or his tutors—checked up on his story, because it would be a little awkward to explain.

  Though not nearly as awkward as the truth.

  The eggs and the roses were the only fresh ingredients. The others they had been able to gather and store here over the last several sennights. As Tiedor carefully broke the eggs into the bowl—they weren’t sure from the recipe whether to break them or not, but as Kermis pointed out, if they didn’t break them, what they would have would be chickens—the others added the rest of the ingredients. Last of all, Kermis added several ounces of fluid—and rather poisonous—quicksilver, and then dropped in the original piece of umbrastone. It would form the raw materials in its own image, making the creation of new umbrastone more certain. It instantly sank to the bottom.

  All of them stared down at the golden bowl full of peculiar and unappetizing varicolored slime. The quicksilver floated on the top, eddying around the broken eggshells and the rose-heads. It smelled … odd.

  “Well it isn’t going to do anything yet!” Kermis said, sounding irritable and nervous. “Help me pour it into the containment vessel. Then we’ll light the athanor. Then we wait.”

  It took four of them to pick up the bowl now that it was full, and it hadn’t been light to start with. The room was dark, lit only by entirely mundane lanterns, for Kermis was worried that any use of the Art Magickal would interfere with the delicate operation of the Art Khemitic. They would be using ordinary wood and coal to heat the oven, which meant that one of them would have to be here every day to make sure it stayed at the proper temperature.

  Cilarnen locked eyes with Master Raellan across the lip of the bowl as the four of them lifted it in unison. Master Raellan gave him a small smile of triumph.

  “Halt in the name of the High Council!”

  Suddenly the cellar blazed bright with Mage-light. Cilarnen heard the clatter of Stone Golem feet on the steps leading down into the cellar. He didn’t know who dropped the bowl first, only that it slipped from his hands to strike the floor with a ringing clang, spattering its noisome contents everywhere.

  Spell-fed panic gripped him, and despite the Mage-light glare, it was suddenly hard to see. Cilarnen backed away from the mess on the floor until the wall jarred hard against his back.

  “Run!” someone shouted, but there was nowhere to run to. There was only one entrance to the cellar, and it was filled with Stone Golems and grey-clad Journeyman Mages, their wands tracing glowing Glyphs of Containment in the air.

  This has all gone terribly wrong. It was a ridiculously understated thing to think, and it was the last conscious thought Cilarnen had before one of the floating glyphs touched his face. It seemed to burst, stealing his senses from him.

  ANIGREL watched with grave approval as the Stone Golems carried the last of the unconscious conspirators from the cellar. It had been the work of an instant for Master Raellan to vanish, and Undermage Anigrel, here on the Arch-Mage’s orders, to take his place. And though the children might speak of Master Raellan all they liked, no one would ever be able to locate the fellow, no matter how hard they searched—which would only add to the High Mages’ paranoia once the full extent of this night’s work was disclosed. It would be obvious that the children were merely the spearhead of a conspiracy to destroy the very fabric of life as the City knew it.

  At least, it would be once he was through explaining things to Lycaelon.

  “THE conspirators have been secured, my lord.”

  Anigrel stepped into Lycaelon’s private office in the Council House. Outside, the single carillon of Midnight Bells rang through the night air.

  “Good.” A flame of triumph kindled in Lycaelon’s grey eyes. “And their fathers?”

  “Remain—so far—in ignorance that their activities have been discovered,” Anigrel said smoothly.

  “You feel they were involved as well?” Lycaelon said sharply.

  “My lord, how could they not be?” Anigrel said, feigning surprise. “Young men of good families … how could they mount a conspiracy of this magnitude without assistance from their families? Could young Lalkmair have gained access to the information he needed to create umbrastone without his father’s assistance, for example? And I’m sure you will find, when you question them, that there are others involved as well. Assuming their memories have not already been erased by magick to protect their fellow conspirators, of course.” There! That should do much to explain the inconvenient fact that Cilarnen and the others would insist they were alone in their plans.

  He watched as Lycaelon contemplated the prospect.

  “There must be trials,” he said at last. “There can be no accusations without evidence of guilt. But it is a time for the testing of fealty, Anigrel. Yes, and a time to reward loyalty.”

  “Trials, of course,” Anigrel said smoothly, “but you will wish to proceed with the utmost caution, naturally. It seems obvious that this is yet another attempt by the Wildmages to subvert our ranks, for who else would need to weaken our magick in order to replace it with their own? Further, it now seems clear that Lord Volpiril has been involved all along, and that his insistence on reducing the borders of our influence is in fact another aspect of this very conspiracy. He will have to resign his Council seat at the very least—and as for Cilarnen, I imagine the Council will recommend Banishment, don’t you?”

  Lycaelon smiled. “Indeed. Banishment for Cilarnen and for the tradesman’s whelp—and that means the re-enlargement of our Borders to make that punishment more than a meaningless reprimand. Volpiril, Isas, and Breulin—at the very least—will lose their Council seats over this night’s work.”

  Anigrel merely nodded, and schooled his face into an expression of humility.

  “And that lea
ves vacancies on the Council,” Lycaelon continued. “And I know precisely whom I intend to appoint to one of those places. Oh, it hasn’t been done for centuries, but there is precedent for it. I have the power. I shall raise you, my loyal aide, to the rank of High Mage at once, and you shall take Volpiril’s place, to serve me loyally as he never did.”

  Anigrel waited a beat, as if the news had not actually penetrated, then assumed a look of mingled pleasure and surprise. Not shock; shock would be a little too much. “My Lord!” he said, gazing at the Arch-Mage. “I—I hardly know what to say!”

  “And I do not think I shall fill the other vacancies at all,” Lycaelon went on, with grim satisfaction. “Let those seats stand empty, rather than being occupied with those who would only become my enemies.”

  The next few bells were full of feverish activity; messages sent and received, certain Mageborn notified, certain of them kept in ignorance. And through it all, Anigrel worked quietly at Lycaelon’s elbow, as if nothing had changed. Which was exactly what Lycaelon wanted, of course.

  So now he would be a member of the High Council, Anigrel thought to himself. And afterward—little though Lycaelon might suspect it at the moment—they would go on winnowing the ranks of the Council of those who were not perfectly loyal to the Arch-Mage.

  The Arch-Mage and his so-devoted acolyte.

  THEY were somewhere underground, that much Lairamo knew for certain. Despite her best intentions, she had lost consciousness several times during that frightful aerial journey, when she had dangled far above the surface of the ground, half-frozen and battered by the winds of the storm.

  When she had regained consciousness, it was dark. She could smell damp stone, and knew by the stillness of the air that she was somewhere far beneath the earth’s surface, in a tunnel or a cave. She was being carried in some kind of sling by beings who did not need light to see by, and had not known whether to pray that the children were with her, or not. She knew that if they were not with her, they were surely dead, but perhaps death was better than her own eventual fate.