by C A Oliver
“You have not uttered a single true word, but your silence speaks volumes. Do you really think you can deceive us?” he threatened, and his voice was deep.
“Ask a stupid question, expect a stupid answer,” the scout spat, now on the defensive. He was struggling with great difficulty to fight the intrusive power of the red mages. Already he could sense their mental claws reaching for his brain.
The Twelfth Arcane Master was examining him closely, trying to pierce his disguise. There was a long silence.
“When two thieves meet, they need no introduction,” the enigmatic sorcerer said at last, “they recognize each other wordlessly, immediately. Where is your sword, fencer? Where are your poems, poet? You seem to be lost.”
The scout remained silent. He did not know what to say, what to do. If he opened his mouth, all was lost. If he kept his mouth shut, he was doomed.
“Give us your name, fool!” ordered the Fifth Arcane Master.
The scout hesitated, as though he had neither the wit nor the memory to tell his own name. Eventually, he uttered a few words, his voice low.
“I am… Neyrod… Neyrod of clan Llorely, I come from the woods of Tios Aelie…”
The forces at work around him were impairing his ability to confront his accusers. His mind felt assaulted by the invisible powers wielded by the high mages.
“You lie, insolent Elf!” responded the younger sorcerer. “You made that name up … Neyrod does not exist… Is that the only trick you have left to deceive us?
Cetoron, this is no common spy. I can guess who he truly is. This thief has been after me for some time. I demand he be detained.”
For a moment, the older mage hesitated. This situation was particularly complex. Although it was plain the scout of clan Llorely was no ordinary spy, it seemed his fate was somehow linked to that of the Twelfth Arcane Master. Acyle’s master saw there an opportunity; perhaps this unexpected encounter could give him an advantage over his rival.
Turning to his peer, he vehemently accused him.
“You demand, Naldaron? Have you lost your reason? Would you dare ignore Red Law? Do I need to remind you that members of the College have no coercive power? Our authority comes from the king, but only He can demand justice.
We are no Dragon Warriors, acting unilaterally and despotically. It is not the law of Ka-Blowna which rules our kingdom, but that of Norelin.”
“This Elf poses a direct threat to my life,” insisted the accused, visibly disturbed by this violent charge.
“From the ring I see upon his finger, this Elf belongs to clan Llorely, and therefore is under the protection of the Dol Urmil, a House that has always served our kings faithfully.
He also is protected by the peace of the druids as one who has been conveyed to the Pact Gathering. I cannot let you take him.
The king cannot afford diplomatic incidents with our allies. Is not the House Dol Talas’ rebellion troublesome enough already? Would you also have House Dol Urmil and clan Llorely join forces with Cumberae and Llymar?”
The younger sorcerer seemed to bow down before the force of these words. For a moment, he remained quiet, apparently defeated.
The older mage took advantage of the situation and concluded.
“You may go free, be you scout or spy, but know that your deeds will be reported to the king. Be sure your lord will be visited by the knights of the Golden Hand.”
The old mage’s priority was to resume his discussion with his younger peer ahead of the afternoon’s council. Now that he had managed to outflank his rival, he needed to turn his advantage into success.
The scout disappeared from their sight as quickly as he had come. The red mages remained on the terrace, watching him return to the dwellings of House Dol Urmil.
The presence of Acyle, hidden behind the deciduous vine, still escaped their attention. Despite the risk she was taking, the maid felt safe, almost invulnerable, as if protected by a powerful charm.
After a brief exchange, the sorcerers entered the second-floor room. Acyle watched them concentrating all their whole energy into their hands. Soon, they held a light between them, like a candle burning and illuminating the whole room. The light grew until it formed a translucent and reddish globe around them.
The two mages began. Seen from a distance, their discussion initially looked polite, as though they were engaged in courteous transactions. But the temperature of their exchange was soon heating up.
Without warning, she saw her master raise up his golden staff and draw figures in the air, as if he were explaining unknown realms of the universe and the roads that led to them.
Despite her unnaturally sharp hearing, she could not hear what was said inside the globe of reddish energy. Just from their gestures, however, she could easily tell that the meeting was building to a verbal confrontation of great violence. It was like watching two orators warring like giants. One raved, the other stormed. Each supported his profound sayings with movements of his golden staff. They looked like two wrestlers, neither of whom could overcome the other.
It seemed as if this soundless storm could have lasted for hours but, at last, a distant shout broke in upon the mages’ conversation, a low continuous roar like the swelling tumult of a sweeping wave.
Far below, in the dark woods bordering the river, there twinkled many moving lights, tossing and sinking as they advanced. Meanwhile, within the camp, the tumultuous bellowing of the royal troops broke into words of insult, a hundred times repeated.
“Dark Elves be cursed! Dark Elves be cursed!”
The younger sorcerer seized his elder by the wrist and dragged him towards the parapet to observe the scene. In so doing, the mages left their protective globe and their discussion was ended. Their angry faces told no truce had been found.
Acyle looked down into the vale. Creeping through the darkness of the woods, as their brandished torches dimmed and flashed, a warlike procession was passing by. It was the heavily armed silhouettes of the clan Myortilys troops, all clad in black to honour their patron deity, Eïwal Myos.
She realized the Dark Elves’ units were proceeding to their own encampment ahead of the Pact Gathering. As a sign of aggression, they were deliberately passing just below the walls of Ystanargrond, provoking the wrath of the royal army.
A moment later, the column of the clan Myortilys troops swept into the undergrowth. The furious shouting from within the camp ceased.
Acyle’s gaze returned to the red mages, as her master was raising his head to look his peer in the eye.
“I think you did not quite understand,” she now heard him say, emphasising every word.
There was a hush for the answer. The sigh of the wind among the trees and the low lapping of the distant river swelled up ever louder in the silence.
The fiery younger sorcerer looked hard at his elder, ready to spring out.
A great foreboding of evil weighed heavily upon the Fifth Arcane Master, and it was reflected upon his stern face. More than ever, he wanted to bring the truth to light.
“I was part of the College before Lormelin the Conqueror ever set foot on the Islands. You were not even born. Consider this well: you are a child among the high mages, an anomaly. Every single other Arcane Master can trace their own history even further back than that of Gwarystan itself.
I was your teacher, and the first to perceive your rare talent. I know exactly when my disciple lost his way. You have utterly changed this past few years, Naldaron. I no longer recognize you.
Here you are, jeopardizing the future of our ancestral institution with your proposal for this Pact Gathering. How could you enthral even the wisest of our members? I could not believe my eyes. It was like watching a colony of bees argue over the distribution of honey, unaware of the blazing torch looming towards the hive. That was your doing.”
The Twelfth Arcane Master remained a haven of calm. In a correct tone, he stressed.
“Just because you are representing ‘many’ members, Cetoron, does no
t mean you have obtained a majority of votes… Let me ask you one question. Was my proposal not sanctioned by the vote of the College according to the Red Law?”
The older mage could not care less. He burst with fury.
“One last time, listen to me, Naldaron! We cannot involve the other Islands’ factions in the guardianship of the Lenra Pearl, even for the benefits you are hopeful about.
It was foolish enough to extract it from its safe and bring it to the Valley. Someone might use this as an opportunity to seize it. If the Pearl is returned to the Mighty Prisoner and his wrath is unleashed against us, we will all be in grave danger.
I can assure you; he will stop at nothing to destroy all we have built.
The Lenra Pearl should remain in the tower of crimson. Only the Ruby College has the power to protect it.”
“I must ask you to stop. You are now violating another of our laws. You are now discussing matters of strategic importance outside the protection of our runes. I am drawing a line under this conversation. I will see you again at the final council this afternoon,” replied the younger sorcerer, undaunted.
He turned his back on his interlocutor. The older mage grabbed onto his robes.
“I gave you that staff, I can take it away,” he warned his former disciple.
“I worked very hard for this staff. It has served me well: supporting the heavens above my head and making the earth firm beneath my feet.”
“Naldaron, I am officially recalling your staff. If you will not hand it over willingly, I will send you to the Halls of Agadeon fast as an arrow,” ordered the old mage.
The younger sorcerer gave a shudder. His own savage soul was stirred by the insult, but only his gleaming eyes spoke of the fire within.
He slowly handed his golden staff back to his former teacher with his left hand.
His right hand moved fast. It reached for an invisible scabbard at his back. In a flash, a pommel inlaid with sapphires and a shining blade appeared.
The long scimitar seared through the air.
Letting go his opponent’s staff, the older mage raised his own with both hands to meet the challenge, but it was cut in two before his astonished eyes.
The defender seized his former mentor with a silent assault of occult forces. His great will and power seemed inexhaustible. Acyle’s master drew back, calling upon all his forces to defend himself.
The clash of energy was great. They were both unleashing everything in their reserves to triumph. Leaves were flying, and wild vines were uprooted. The ruined walls of the edifice shook violently in the struggle.
Acyle fell from her high-up hiding place. By chance, she did not hurt herself when she hit the ground and was quickly back on her feet.
The conflict lasted but a moment. All became quiet. Acyle decided to climb back up the wall. Her hands grasped the creepers on the wall and soon she had returned to her hideout. The scene she discovered froze her.
Her master was on his knees before his victor. She heard the triumphing Twelfth Arcane Master snarling over him.
“It was a grave error you made, attempting to thwart my power, Cetoron. You should have known better.”
His teeth were like swords, his mouth dripping in blood. The shining blade of his scimitar was pressing into on her master’s throat. The sapphires on the sword’s hilt were glittering with rays of the sun.
“Your mind is still stubborn and unbridled. I order you to submit! Don’t force me to use my blade!” insisted the Twelfth Arcane Master.
The older mage looked at him, defeated.
‘Power lies deeply in the blood of Naldaron,’ thought Acyle as she looked at the sorcerer with fascination. ‘He may be the most dangerous enemy there is.’ She was amazed at his strength of will and steadiness of purpose.
“You will own the Ruby College before you are finished!” her master foresaw aloud.
Sure of his complete victory, the Twelfth Arcane Master’s eyes sparkled. “I sincerely doubt it, after the devastation that will be wreaked tomorrow,” he mocked. Then, quickly, correcting himself after saying too much, he added, “But for now, I have thought of a way your life can be saved.”
There was a moment of silence as the red sorcerer listened with great attention to the noises of his surroundings. He seemed to be interrogating the wind, discovering whether it had brought the rumour of their fight to the camp.
He raised his head and moved sidewise, like a hound attempting to get downwind of an intruder, to smell and identify the source of the danger.
Acyle knew she had to flee before she was discovered. She scrambled down the vine and, without pausing to admire its budding white flowers, ran back towards the ruins of Ystanargrond.
*
In King Norelin’s absence, the great tent of the Ruby College stood symbolically at the centre of the camp. The high mages embodied the personal will of the king, while the other Dor and Dol Households represented the varying ambitions of the Hawenti nobles.
The time for the afternoon council had come and the twelve high mages, accompanied by their maids, were arriving in the vast meeting place. It was bright, decorated with rare flowers, and the melodies of strange singing birds hummed through the air.
At the entrance stood two knights of the Ruby, true to their council duties. With blood-red armour and helmets, they had heavy lances in one hand, whilst in the other they held large shields bearing the gemstones of their masters.
Passing before them, the Twelfth Arcane Master nodded unceremoniously, and he entered the great tent with his maid. In an obvious sign of his rising favour, he was saluted respectfully by the four members of the first Square, the greatest of the Ruby College.
Meanwhile, the Fifth Arcane Master was making his own entrance with his new maid.
Immediately Acyle felt deeply troubled at the sight of the pentacles drawn on the canvas of the tent. Overwhelmed with confusion, she shuffled forwards, then back, before standing in a disoriented daze.
Friezes decorated with glyphs boarded the tapestries. Many runes were protecting this place. They could be seen all over the carpets and on the furniture as well.
Acyle seemed to be at a crossroads, with infinite paths leading away from her, but none that would lead her home; fear and pain entangled her.
She refused to follow her master into the tent. The maid paid no heed to his injunctions but remained still, blinking, utterly confused. Her agitation provoked suspicion all around her, as servants and maids were busy preparing the final details for the council. The knights frowned at her.
The four high mages of the First Square, had just completed filling up an aromatic amphora with wine and were about to drink it off. Their hands then froze as they were suddenly arrested by the strong sense that something was amiss.
Acyle began acting erratically.
Her misconduct was clear for all to see and was reflected in the frightened eyes of the servants, the agitated faces of the two knights and in the sudden silence of her master.
The other mages present turned their heads away to avoid the four masters’ questioning gaze.
“What in the name of the king is the matter with that lunatic?” cried the First Arcane Master, whose last few days of intensive preparation had left him little patience. “Why do you stand here like a helpless fool, Cetoron? What is wrong with your maid? Are you not her absolute master?”
The old sorcerer’s face, still haggard after the degradation that had befallen him just hours earlier, now contorted with fresh anxiety at this latest humiliation.
“I am not responsible for this, Anaron! She deserves punishment!” he said in an attempt at authority, before laying a hand upon his necklace.
A whip of lightning appeared in his hand, and the old mage used it to lash his maid, creating bright sparks at it struck her. But Acyle seemed utterly unharmed by the whipping, as though she were enveloped in some powerful mystery that no blow could break.
Acyle entered a form of deep meditation and refused to mo
ve any further but faced the First Arcane Master defiantly.
The most high-ranking member of the Ruby College was a short, thin Elf, with unkempt dark hair and wild eyes, which shone brightly with a strong inner intensity. His hands were concealed behind his back, and over his golden necklace was the largest ruby ever seen in the Islands.
The First mage asked Acyle’s master how it was possible for his maid to have reached this unnatural state. His patience was at an end.
“Speak this instant, Cetoron,” he shouted angrily. “Another moment and we will have you imprisoned. With your feet in stocks and the chains round your wrists, the view from the top of Gwarystan Rock will teach you obedience.
For the final time, I ask you to speak, and without delay!”
The old mage startled, gave a cry of apprehension and rushed towards his servant, barking incantations at her like orders. But the formula of violent exorcism he shouted did not seem to have power over the bad spirit that possessed his maid.
“Let us bring her in and ask her ourselves!” suggested the Twelfth Arcane Master with a commanding tone.
The First mage walked around the young Elf four times and snapped his fingers while uttering incantations. She remained still, in meditation, like protecting herself in an otherworldly sphere.
