by C A Oliver
The young mages serving him enjoyed great influence, owing to their proximity… But we, the high mages, were only involved in matters of state.”
Acyle placed the heavy necklace around her master’s neck. Five rubies of significant size were incrusted into gold. A dark vial containing viscous liquid hung from the chain.
“Is it today’s unexpected promotion to first maid that has given you so much confidence? I see that you are finally showing some interest in your master’s life…
Your positive attitude deserves a reward.
Let me tell you what I needed do to enter the College’s final two innermost circles.”
“If my master speaks, I am a willing listener.”
“This story goes back a long time, to the first years of the kingdom. After the change Lormelin had brought to the Red Law, castration became standard practice, how all apprentices concluded their studies at the Ruby College…”
The mage suddenly laughed, as if he had just remembered an event from long ago.
“Many Elves would have sacrificed their own mothers for a place at our college. But there were a few who ran a mile when they learned what the last stage of their initiation would be. The young lord Dol Lewin is a recent example, as was Almit Dol Etrond before him. Both, it should be remembered, ended up betraying the king…”
It was then that he was struck with an idea. He remained wide-eyed for a time, looking almost naive, as he pondered a possible new method of detecting traitors at the royal court.
‘What if refusing castration was an early sign of betrayal?’ he thought.
But the mage quickly abandoned the idea. Such a strategy would hardly help birth-rates. He returned to his story.
“To everyone’s surprise, the Conqueror also insisted that the existing dignitaries of our caste should all undergo the same emasculation process as the new members now had to. It is important to note that by castration I mean the removal of absolutely everything…
I did it myself, with a blood dagger.
Since then, wherever I go I have carried my severed organs with me, preserved in vinegar. This is what hangs in the glass jar around my neck: the proof of my indefectible loyalty to the line of High Elvin kings.”
*
The sun was warm, and the wind was mild when the old mage and his maid exited their tent. Acyle used her recently acquired paper fan to ensure her master stayed cool. She felt proud of performing that task, as it demonstrated her new position to the eyes of all who passed them by.
They did not have far to travel. Barely a few yards away stood another of the Ruby College’s red tents. It stood in the far eastern corner of the second square, thus marking the lower rank of its occupant.
The edifice was made of strong canvas. It had been built along the ruins of an ancient house. Certain decorative features of the architecture were still discernible; outside the mansion, there was a limestone wall relief depicting a royal attendant visiting the lord of Nargrond Valley.
Complying with strict college etiquette, Acyle announced the arrival of her master at the tent’s entrance, where two young sorcerers were on duty. This morning visit was evidently expected, and one of the eunuchs hurried inside to announce their coming.
A moment later, her master was ushered into the presence of another member of his caste. She recognized him from his red woven toga and his necklace adorned with a dozen small rubies. The only name she knew him by was his rank: The Twelfth Arcane Master.
The younger high mage was calmly peeling and picking the seeds out of a piece of fruit and did not trouble to acknowledge his visitor until he had opened his mouth and eaten it.
“Greetings, Cetoron,” he said coldly after finishing his food. He then pronounced the ritual words of their caste. “When the world itself is in ruins…”
“…our true selves will remain unscathed,” completed Acyle’s master.
The two lordly mages stood in front of one another. The difference between them was immediately noticeable. Her master was an old, dark-haired High Elf of weaker build, whereas his interlocutor was tall, far younger, with an aquiline face and the eyes of a serpent.
Acyle knew him well. He was very influential: An Elf who, at no small risk to himself, had answered the call of the Ruby College and rapidly climbed its ranks. The twelve small rubies embedded in his golden necklace denoted his position: the lowest member of the College’s highest caste. Hierarchy under Ruby Law was strict and unforgiving; only when promising members performed utterly extraordinary feats could they ever hope of overtaking their elders.
Both sorcerers were equally bald, as the College’s tradition required that their heads be shaved every morning. Their long golden staffs were incrusted with rubies.
Again, in the manner of their ancient traditions, they were dressed in the draped red togas of their caste. Since the very earliest times, the high mages of the Ruby College wore red to symbolize the blood they were ready to shed in defence of their liege, the king of the High Elves.
“Well?” asked the younger mage, smiling bitterly.
“Dear Naldaron, I am here on behalf of many of our distinguished fellows. We wish to prepare a petition ahead of today’s council. The Pact Gathering is tomorrow, and we still have an opportunity to change the College’s plans this afternoon,” the older sorcerer answered gravely.
Acyle could sense the tension between the two eunuchs suddenly reach new heights.
“The point of this petition is dull, but I will nevertheless answer it,” the younger mage finally agreed. He was making a special effort to control his anger.
“Let me remind you that when you were ordained as the twelfth of our caste, you received this golden necklace and red toga from me. Those were valuable gifts I bestowed upon you,” the older sorcerer, Cetoron, reminded him.
“What I sought were the College’s teachings, not its material treasures.”
“And teach you I did, as was my responsibility as Fifth Arcane Master towards the Twelfth. But when the Elder calls, the Younger must answer. This is the Red Law, that of our predecessors and indeed of our successors. Tomorrow is no ordinary day,” stressed the older sorcerer.
He paused, as if expecting some angry outburst in response to his invoking the College’s traditions. The high mages had already voted in favour of attending the Pact Gathering. The College’s records showed that any agreed motion should be considered its final decision.
But, looking calm and sure of himself, the Twelfth Arcane Master merely nodded his head as a sign his elder fellow should proceed. He did, however, demand the utmost confidentiality for what would be discussed next.
“I will listen to your request, but after that, I will not be drawn into any further attempts to reverse the decision. When a wise Elf is defeated, he should accept it, otherwise he is a fool. The College does not need fools!” he insisted.
“I am the claimant, so I will therefore accept the terms you judge necessary.”
“If that be so, then I suggest we withdraw to a more discreet location to continue our talks. One can never be too careful,” finally recommended the Twelfth Arcane Master.
A few moments later, the two red mages exited the tent and walked the camp’s alleys, closely followed by their respective maids, each fanning her master with an unwavering dedication.
They soon discovered there was much confusion around the encampment, as lords and knights, guards and archers exchanged the latest news.
Upon the ancient walls of Ystanargrond, there stood a great concourse of soldiers who had hurried forth from the city ruins upon news that envoys of the druids’ circles were in sight. They stood now, Elves and Men, gazing with breathless interest at the coming of the druids. Below, on the other side of the walls, the priests of the woods had drawn so close that the royal troops could make out their poor clothes and long filthy hair.
Meanwhile, the red sorcerers and their servants were heading towards a quieter area of the city’s ruins. Indifferent to the birdsong
celebrating summer and the innumerable kinds of fragrant flowers around them, they made their way, with firm strides, through the maze of tents.
At last they came up to an ancient mansion, which still had two floors intact. Even more unusually for the ruined city, a balcony running around the building’s second floor offered a view over the volcano and the valley.
“Well, for my part, I would be happy to hold our talk inside that building, preferably on the second floor. That terrace offers a commanding view of our surroundings. I am of mind to stop in this impasse and see if we are being followed…
If the fish is too greedy, it will meet the fishhook and will be caught,” the Twelfth Arcane Master added with a strange look in his eye.
In a demonstration of sheer paranoia, he began to examine the edges of the ancient mansion. For a moment, Acyle thought she had seen shadowy birds fly out from the sorcerer’s staff. It was certainly a sight to behold, watching them dart about among the grey stones of the ancient ruins.
After an extensive search of the surroundings, the shadowy birds returned to their conjurer and whispered to his ear.
The Twelfth Arcane Master had expected to find, in this ruined edifice far from the main camp, a sanctuary of calm, but his hope was in vain.
Purposefully making his way up a grassy knoll which was overhung with olives and myrtles, he came upon a cave, in the entrance of which sat a Llewenti scout, white-haired and wrapped in a long blue cloak. The scout’s face was tanned from the many days he had spent outdoors. His gaze was a beautiful clear azure, which expressed both sincerity and disillusion.
The older sorcerer and the two maids followed the younger mage up the slope and were soon standing behind him.
So engaged and deep in contemplation was this lonely Elf that he seemed to have almost forgotten the use of his tongue; but, at last, words returned to him, and he was able to articulate that he belonged to clan Llorely and was a member of the House Dol Urmil’s units.
“Little did I think, Elf from Urmilla,” said the Twelfth Arcane Master, “I should ever find a true member of clan Llorely so far from his home.”
“Nor did I ever expect to meet a high mage of the Ruby College,” replied the scout, rather curtly.
The Twelfth Arcane Master ignored this laconic comment but instead closely examined the blue ring on the Elf’s little finger. He quickly identified it as a token of clan Llorely’s belonging.
It was no everyday occurrence to come across a Llewenti of that kin. These Elves descended from Queen Llyoriane’s fifth daughter and dwelled in the northern parts of the island Nyn Llorely, in a tree city called Tios Aelie. That clan had never known much success in war. Ever since its defeat at the Battle of Ruby and Seagulls by the invading armies of Lormelin the Conqueror, it had always bowed before the High Elves. Long ago, they had sworn allegiance to the lord of House Dol Urmil and withdrawn into their woods to continue their traditions. The clan Llorely were known as the most reclusive inhabitants of the Islands.
From their high altitude, the mage and the scout could gaze out at the long valley, covered with waving grass, dense woods and gleaming vivid green in the sun. It stretched away, powerful and unbroken like a great emerald river, towards the three columns of the Gnomes in the east. The sorcerer stared across it with curiosity.
“I understand that, from where you are sitting, you can observe the farther side of the lowland. But I do not believe anything will come across it today. You may see to your other duties. If some traveller comes from this direction, you can rely on us to raise the alarm.”
The scout understood it was useless to reason further with a high mage. He withdrew with dignity, probably wondering why, at this far corner of the army’s camp, members of the Ruby College would break upon his peaceful solitude. With his head held high, he walked in deep thought down the hill towards the camp.
The two red sorcerers watched him until his bronze helmet had disappeared behind the first ruins.
“Well, now we are alone, Naldaron. It is high time we begin our meeting. The council will be held in a few hours, and we still have much to discuss,” insisted the older mage.
“I agree, Cetoron, let us enter the room on the second floor. We can place our protective glyphs on its doors,” concurred the younger sorcerer, and he reached out a hand of brotherhood to the other.
To the surprise of their maids, the red mages suddenly floated up in the air and reached the terrace a few feet above. They disappeared from the sight of their servants. The maids heard their masters began to murmur their incantations.
Acyle understood the mages must have been drawing pentacles and enchanting glyphs to protect the secrecy of their exchange.
As if drawn to them by a mysterious force, Acyle was suddenly overwhelmed with curiosity. She immediately concocted a lie to get her fellow servant out of the way.
“We must remove ourselves immediately,” she said. “Our masters demand privacy. They wish for us to wait for them at the tents.”
The other maid looked both surprised and intrigued. “I did not hear any such command,” she stammered.
“It seems that your master never taught you to anticipate his will. I myself have learnt that lesson well. I am leaving,” and Acyle turned on her heels and walked quickly away. “Don’t stay!” she called back one last time.
The gazes of the maids crossed. In an instant, and for an unknown reason, the second maid was overwhelmed with anxiety. Dread and anguish were suddenly upon her, pursuing her like savage predators. Unable to control her fear, the young Elvin servant abandoned her lonely post and returned in haste towards the camp.
This was the opportunity Acyle had been waiting for. Still haunted by an obsession to discover what the red mages were discussing, she doubled back towards the ancient mansion, utterly possessed by this unhealthy curiosity. Demonstrating surprising force and dexterity, she easily scaled the rocks to the side of the mansion that almost reached the corner of the terrace. Her hands clung to the stones and weeds like claws, her legs propelled her to the top like wings. After leaping from the top of the outcrop, she landed on the upper floor’s parapet and hid behind a broadleaved vine. Now out of sight, she could contemplate the scene before her.
The red mages had entered a deep meditation. Standing still behind a folding screen, they looked absent, as if they had forgotten the great sky and retired from the world.
Their lengthy wait was coming to an end, and they were both about to release their attention when a noise made them turn back. Right before their eyes, a grappling hook had been shot up onto the terrace. The iron hook was dragged backwards before catching onto the stone parapet. The rope tightened under the weight of the climber.
The fierce dark soul of the younger sorcerer glowed as he realised how essential his additional security measures had been.
Acyle had noticed how, all morning, he had been on the defensive. Now she realised he was not paranoid but had good reason to fear spies, or even assassins.
Her gaze moved back to the mysterious grappling hook.
An Elfin hand emerged on the edge of the balcony, clinging onto the stone parapet. A second hand, wearing a blue ring, found another hold on a nearby outcrop.
The spy let out a cry before hauling himself up and leaping to his feet. The cloaked figure of that same clan Llorely scout was now standing on the parapet. He hesitated only for a moment, judging how best to reach a new hideout across the empty terrace.
But the scout then saw the red mages, standing by the door. He shivered, so stunned he could not move.
Too late did the intrusive climber understand the Elves he was confronting. Just as he got footholds to climb back over the terrace’s parapet, he felt the stone structure sink and sway beneath him. He tried rushing forward to escape but the crumbling floor pulled him downwards with it.
All the while, the red mages were drawing towards him, and now reached out their arms to send invisible bonds, strong as iron, lashing around him. As the floor co
ntinued to cascade downwards, he was reared high in the air, before being flung violently against the second-floor’s stone wall.
After a great thud, the scout cried out in pain as bones broke and limbs twisted. At last the helpless creature lay upon what remained of the terrace floor.
The two mages approached him with caution, as if closing in on dangerous prey which, though nearly beaten to death, could still, in desperate act, strike out and harm them.
“So, you hoped to spy on us, lonely Elf?” asked the Twelfth Arcane Master. “How intriguing!”
“I can roam where I please,” winced the breathless scout.
“As can I… if indeed it pleased me, I could dance along frozen glaciers or walk a tightrope across a volcano... but in no circumstances would I ever dare eavesdrop on high mages of the Ruby College.”
“What are you after?” asked Fifth Arcane Master. He was losing patience.
“Lord Dol Urmil ordered me to watch out for any suspicious behaviour in camp. Before we came, sinister prophecies were told across Nyn Llorely when news of the Pact Gathering reached us. The matriarchs of clan Llorely say that the Flow has been trapped. It no longer circulates around the Islands.”
“And you believe these fanciful superstitions?” laughed the Fifth Arcane Master. “Do you really pay those witches any heed?”
The younger sorcerer interrupted the laughter of his peer. He had just become utterly certain the spy was lying.
