Within the Council there were always undercurrents of alliance and jockeyings for position. And it was, disturbing though the thought might be, entirely possible for the head of the Council and the chief Arch-Mage of Armethalieh to be deposed, set aside, forced to yield his place to another. It had not been done in decades. It had never been done to a Tavadon.
Two for him, three against him, and every member of the Council, Isas and Harith included, was both ruthless and ambitious, and each had sources of information nearly as extensive as Lycaelon’s own. Each of them had reviewed—as was their right—the experiences of the golems of the Scouring Hunt … the ones that had returned, at any rate. Too many of the creatures the Council thought invincible had not returned at all, and that after The Outlaw had somehow managed to utterly destroy all the packs sent against him.
And since this new campaign was all by Lycaelon Tavadon’s orders, the Arch-Mage himself was to blame.
“Gentlemen, shall we convene?” Lycaelon said smoothly, masking his unease as he settled into his seat.
This was a special session of the Council, but the business of the City still had to be dealt with first, for the good of the City. Several smaller matters were raised and handled quickly and efficiently, but Lycaelon could feel the current of tension and expectation running beneath it all, like a riptide beneath the still surface of the sea. Everyone in the room knew what the true purpose of this meeting was.
“And now, the last item on our agenda for this afternoon. The Western Campaign,” Lycaelon began.
Normally they would have heard the reports of the Mages who rode with the Militia in person, but those men were still in the field, and besides, this was too delicate a situation to discuss in the presence of anyone outside the High Council. The field Mages had reported by scryingglass to Lord Arance, who had worked the spell that had trapped the sendings in the clear golden sphere of Farspeaking until they should be released with a counterspell.
“Before we hear the reports of our Undermages in the west, perhaps it would be helpful to us all to review what we already know about the situation,” Lycaelon said. “The people of the west have a long history of contempt for the civilizing benefits of citizenship in our City.”
“We know that those damned upstart western rabble are nothing but a pack of savages,” Lord Ganaret said fiercely, leaning forward. “If you ask me, the Hunt should have scoured them all off the land!”
“Now, Ganaret,” Volpiril said smoothly. “What would there be to tax in that case? Not that there seems to be anything to tax in any case, if what we have heard so far is true. It seems that Arch-Mage Lycaelon’s well-known humanitarianism has led him into trying to bring the benefits of civilization to people who simply aren’t ready to receive it.” High Mage Volpiril sat back in his chair, well pleased with his opening remarks. “Only the savage would destroy his own food, shelter, and belongings and flee into the wilderness rather than accept the rule of the civilized.”
“Crops burned in their fields … whole villages gone overnight … it’s Demon-magic, that’s what it is,” muttered the aged Lord Vilmos. Vilmos, it was well known, saw Demons beneath every bed and in every chamber pot.
“Now, Lord Vilmos, I think you go too far,” Lord Isas said hastily, with a quick glance at Lycaelon.
“Obviously The Outlaw found a way to spy upon our councils, as I warned you he would,” Lycaelon interrupted, turning the discussion back in a more appropriate direction. “My lords, this squabbling ill becomes us. Surely these are only minor setbacks. The villages will accept our benevolent rule with time. Arance, let us hear the reports from the field.”
Lycaelon would have suppressed them if he could, already having a fairly good idea of what the full versions of those reports contained, but his power in the City was not that great. The Arch-Mage led the Council, but he did not rule it. If Lycaelon only had his way, he would dispense entirely with the entire pack of shortsighted nattering fools, fit only to raise power for his use, and shepherd Armethalieh to her destiny as the Golden City should be guided, with wisdom and vision!
His wisdom. His vision. He alone had the foresight to envision what must be done. And he alone had the strength of character to sacrifice anything and anyone, even his sole son and heir, to preserve the safety of the City.
But it was not possible. And he was certain the others’ sources of information were nearly as good as his own. There was no purpose in wasting his energy on a fight he would surely lose. Better to let the reports enter the record, and plan how to turn the information to his advantage later.
Arance stood, and set a large black box on the table before him. He opened it to reveal a golden sphere of flawless crystal, which he lifted out and raised gently, his lips moving silently in the complicated counterspell that would release the stored energies contained within it.
The sphere rose into the air and hovered at man-height over the center of the chamber. It began to spin, faster and faster, until it vanished, and in its place stood an Undermage in field robes, his form faintly golden and transparent.
“My lords of the Council, I speak to you from the Western Hills, and bring you news that makes ill hearing. We have come today to a village called Merryvale, but the gates are barred and they will not give us entry. They have refused to allow a steward to be set over them, and have given us a petition to be delivered to the Council, requesting that you allow them to live in peace under their own laws. They have refused to supply us with fodder for our animals or food for our men, nor can we supply ourselves, for the fields and orchards surrounding the village are stripped bare. There is no game in the woods, and no fish in the stream. Our supplies are running low. Several of the men have been badly stung by bees as well. Since we cannot stay here, we are moving on to the next village as quickly as we can.” The image faded, to be replaced by another, and the report went on.
In every place the delegation from Armethalieh went, the story was the same—or worse. Some villages were gone entirely, with nothing to show they had been there but hearthstones and the village well. When crops had not been harvested down to the last seed, they had been thoroughly spoiled by wildlife, though the travelers saw not so much as a single bird.
Misfortunes abounded. Equipment went missing, horses strayed or went inexplicably lame, supplies were lost. The only wildlife that ever appeared was never anything that could be hunted and eaten—it was inevitably something that would plague them. Flocks of starlings appeared overhead just at mealtime, and anything that wasn’t covered was soon contaminated by droppings. Mice got into the supplies, foxes stole them, and more than once a weary and unsuspecting Mage or officer climbed into his bedroll only to discover that a wildcat had been there first … and had left evidence of its displeasure behind.
Everywhere the Armethaliehans went, the news of their coming had somehow gone before them, and no one wanted to see them. If the Mages had not used their magic to force the few villages they encountered to feed them, the Armethaliehan delegation would have starved, but every time they did use the High Magick, the accidents that befell their party increased.
“I see no recourse save to return to the City, Lord Arch-Mage. We await your orders.”
The figure of the last Undermage vanished upon the conclusion of the last report. The spinning crystal sphere reappeared, and slowed until once more it hovered, motionless, in the air. Lord Arance summoned it back to its box, enclosed it once more, then sat down.
“It seems the west is not as willing to accept the benefits of civilization as is the north and south,” Breulin commented dryly. “My lords, we are dangerously overextended—and for what? A wasteland. Where is the fertile granary you promised us, Arch-Mage Lycaelon? Where is The Outlaw? Where are the hordes of inferior beast-folk who supposedly lived alongside of the human villagers, corrupting them with their insidious presence? We have poured out magic like water on the desert sand—first to expand the boundaries, then to create the Scouring Hunt—and it has brou
ght us nothing.”
There was a general mutter of agreement, and Lycaelon realized with a faint sense of despair that he had lost. The Undermages’ reports were damning. The Council would never agree to the further investment of resources needed to secure the Western Hills for Armethalieh. He could scarcely blame them, for at this point, it had been all loss and no gain.
One by one the members of the Council—all of whom had cheered him so ardently when he had proposed his plan originally—rose to speak. Each of them supported Breulin’s position—even Isas and Harith expressed timid misgivings at the united opposition shown by the westerners, and the cost of overcoming it. The City’s resources and magickal reserves were dangerously low, and it would be the work of long moonturns to rebuild their reserves again without disturbing the populace.
Last of all, Volpiril rose, smiling benignly.
“Knowledge is never wasted,” Volpiril—treacherous, subtle Volpiril!—began slowly. “I believe the Arch-Mage has served the City well. It is good for us to know who our enemies are, and how much they hate us. How else can we know the depth of our own need for protection? And the Scouring Hunt has surely swept the borders clear of rabble for a season at least. Let us rejoice in that.” He smiled benignly on the assembled Council, Lycaelon most of all. The Arch-Mage gritted his teeth in silence, but not without effort. The impudent Darkspawn! How dare he speak in such patronizing tones!
“But let us also heed this warning against rashness and the dangers of trying to protect too much at once. As the Arch-Mage said in his stirring speech—which I’m certain we all took to heart—the Golden City is the City of Man, a flickering candle in the darkness of bestiality and error that surrounds it. We dare not let this precious Light go out, even though we naturally grieve to see fellow humans suffering and in peril.
“And so, it is my recommendation, which I place most humbly before this assembled Council, that we take instruction from our momentary weakness, and return our borders to their ancient, hallowed, and historic limits, abandoning our new territories. Now and always, Armethalieh the Golden must stand alone, perfect and pure! To the walls—and not one ell beyond!”
Volpiril sat down again amid murmurs of approval. There was a moment of expectant silence.
It was some small consolation, Lycaelon thought sourly, to see Breulin looking as irritated as he felt himself at Volpiril’s pretty speechmaking. It was true that the City’s food supply would not suffer—the farmers had no other market for their crops, after all. They would continue to bring them—but now, they would want to be paid for them.
And if ever there had been a moment in the history of the City when the actions of the Council had virtually handed anyone who had even thought of rebellion the signal to do so without fear of reprisal, this was it. Why should anyone outside the City bother to pay his just tithes and taxes now?
“It will undoubtedly come as a great surprise to the villages of the Central Valley to discover they are no longer to be taxed or claimed by the City, but undoubtedly the visionary Lord Volpiril has some way to replace those lost revenues as well!” Lycaelon muttered, just loud enough for his fellow Mages to hear.
He waited, but no one rose to speak in opposition to Volpiril’s plan. And he would not demean himself. If they could not see the disaster they were brewing for themselves, he would do nothing more to save them from it. Let them reap the consequences of their folly. Let them see what ignorant, foolish children they really were. Let the dark days come, let all see them for what they were, and when things were darkest, let all turn to him, Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon, let them beg him to save them from the consequences of their thoughtless arrogance and pride—!
“I call the vote,” Lycaelon said. He extended his hand, palm down. Disapproval.
It went as he thought it would go from the moment Volpiril rose to speak. With ten in favor and two abstentions, his dissenting vote was overruled.
The Council would abandon its new territories, pulling back its boundaries to the City walls themselves.
But this was not the end, Lycaelon vowed silently. He would accept neither this defeat nor the City’s loss. Someday—someday soon—in the name of the City, the Council would reclaim all the lands Lycaelon had been forced to forfeit in its name today.
And more.
Much more.
ANIGREL had received advance warning of the disastrous failure of the Scouring Hunt—more than Lycaelon had, for his information had come a fortnight ago, when he had filled his iron bowl with dove’s blood and herbs to make his regular moonturn’s report.
He had learned then with a mixture of dread and glee of the Hunt’s utter failure, and the defeat of the proud Armethaliehan army that rode in its wake. Glee—because the City had drained every reserve and overextended itself severely to mount the attack, leaving itself exhausted and vulnerable, easy prey. Dread—because failure on such a vast scale required scapegoats, and Anigrel knew perfectly well that his own position in Lycaelon Tavadon’s household was less secure than it had been before The Outlaw’s Banishment.
After all, private secretaries could be had for the asking, and he certainly wasn’t needed as a tutor anymore.
Today’s emergency Council session could only mean that the Council was meeting to review the reports from the field, admit what each of them had known a sennight ago, and fix the blame.
“There are no failures, only opportunities.” He only hoped it was possible to grasp the opportunity in this.
“Anigrel!”
Arch-Mage Lycaelon strode into his private office, his aura crackling with barely leashed rage. Anigrel rose from behind his desk and appeared in the connecting doorway.
“Lord Arch-Mage.” He schooled his face to a meek expression of bland deference. “The meeting did not go well?”
For a moment Anigrel thought Lycaelon would explode—literally burst into a thousand pieces, like a Founding Day firework. But somehow the Arch-Mage kept his composure in the face of Anigrel’s goading. Such seemingly innocent remarks were one of Anigrel’s few pleasures, and a necessary part of his masquerade, Anigrel told himself, because they were just the sort of thing someone with no inside knowledge of events would say.
“The meeting did not go well, Light blast Volpiril into cold Darkness and the rest of the Council with him for their foolishness,” Lycaelon snarled. “Volpiril says, in his ‘wisdom,’ that if the Western Campaign has been such a failure, the only thing we can do is abandon all our lands, including the Home Farms!”
It was just as well that Lycaelon was so angry he paid no attention to Anigrel at all, for the momentary surge of shock and elation must surely have set its mark, however briefly, on Anigrel’s features.
“You should have seen Breulin’s face when the Council agreed to that; he will think twice about supporting that viper next time.”
Lycaelon sounded savage in his satisfaction at that—well, Breulin owned several of the Home Farms, and now he would have to go without the protection of the City if anything untoward happened out there. More to the point, if his servants and laborers elected to defect and keep everything the farms produced for themselves, there was nothing Mage Breulin would be able to do to enforce his will.
Now Lycaelon shook his head, the energy that his anger had generated running out of him like water from a cracked jar. “But it is done. Our borders are our walls, as it was in the beginning. The proclamations will go out as soon as they can be enscribed.”
“This is … strange news, Lord Arch-Mage,” Anigrel said slowly. And important enough to report immediately, without waiting for the usual time.
“Strange indeed. But I will not let their blindness defeat me.” Lycaelon’s voice hardened. “You have taught me the value of perseverance, eh, my young friend? And now, Anigrel, I am tired. Bring me tea.”
Anigrel hurried to do as he was bid, his mind turning on what this meant to his own mission.
“There are no failures, only opportunities!”
&
nbsp; And this would be a great opportunity indeed … for the Dark Lady.
FROM the habit of years, Idalia woke a little before dawn. She could feel the life of Sentarshadeen all around her, like a melody played just below the threshold of hearing, but mingled with it, terribly, was a wrongness, a discord—faint still, but holding within it the potential to grow stronger with time.
The drought had disturbed her ever since she’d seen the first signs of it as they rode toward Sentarshadeen. Drought and flood were both aspects of the balance of Nature, for Nature was not gentle with her creatures, and sometimes the ways she achieved her balance were necessarily harsh. But a natural drought was a thing that was long years in the making, a thing of scant rains, not no rain. The High Hills were a country of long dry summers, wet springs, and soaking autumn rains, and a dry summer could extend somewhat into either side of spring or autumn without overmuch harm. But there had been no rain this spring at all, and now none this autumn, and that was not natural.
And more troubling than that, rivers that should have run fast and deep into Elven lands, full with melted snow from the High Peaks, were dry as well.
Perhaps ending the drought would be a simple matter, requiring nothing more than a simple—though powerful—spell. The whole of Sentarshadeen would eagerly share the price, Idalia knew. She only hoped it would be that easy.
Best to find out for sure, then, instead of worrying about it.
She rose and dressed, some imp of perversity causing her to reject the sturdy silks and woolens her hosts had provided in favor of her own buckskins. Let her be seen for what she was: human, and mortal, and Wildmage. Later she would wear the silks as a matter of courtesy, of thanking her hosts tacitly for providing them, but first impressions were important, especially here, and she meant them to think of her as she intended to be.
And Jermayan …
No. She would not think about Jermayan, ever again. And if the man had a scrap of good manners left to him, he’d arrange matters so their paths never crossed. It was for the best. The man was an Elven Knight. He was used to making hard choices. He’d just have to live with hers.
The Outstretched Shadow Page 49
