Kalion, flushed from the exertion of the stairs, smiled at the generously laid table. He tucked a cushion behind him as he sat and unbuttoned the high collar of his scarlet gown, its nap still fresh from the tailor’s brush. “Thank you, Archmage, a little plum cordial, with plenty of water,” he added hastily.
“Just a glass of water, if you please.” Troanna sat unsmiling in an upright chair and ignored golden glazed buns still warm from the oven, split ready for fluffy sweetened cream and the preserves to hand in crystal dishes. As Kalion filled an eager plate, she settled the skirts of an emerald gown in the Caladhrian style favoured by most of Hadrumal’s women. Troanna’s dress was as severe as her expression, without even the usual embroidery to lighten it. Her hazel eyes studied Planir with an intelligence that made it plain she was no mere gap-toothed matron subsiding into dumpy middle age and greying hair. “We came to discuss appointing a new Cloud Master.”
“Or Cloud Mistress.” Kalion looked up from the breakfast table with instant alertness. “Archmage, have you seen the conclusions Velindre drew from her voyage around the Cape of Winds last summer? She’s proving extremely talented.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure of reading her journal as yet.” Planir smiled as he poured drinks at an expensively inlaid sideboard. He waved a hand at the books stacked higher than Troanna’s head on the reading desk. “I have so many calls on my time.”
“You should make time to consider all candidates,” Troanna said, unimpressed, hands laced in her lap.
“Such excessive delay is causing talk around the halls,” Kalion warned as he spread damson jam with precise knife strokes.
“I’m assessing every candidate most thoroughly.” Planir gestured towards the book he’d set aside. “That’s Rafrid’s treatise on the interaction of the southern sea winds and the winter winds from the northern mountains.” He handed a crystal glass to Troanna and set a carafe of water together with a goblet of ruby liquor by Kalion’s elbow.
“If Rafrid had ambitions to be Cloud Master, he shouldn’t have accepted mastery of Hiwan’s Hall.” Kalion emphasised his words with a jab of an empty cream spoon.
“Master or Mistress, we need someone coordinating the proper study of the element,” insisted Troanna.
“Quite so.” Kalion added a little water to the cordial in the goblet. “Archmage, what am I to do when some apprentice appears with a query that should properly be referred to a Cloud Master?”
“Your talents with the air are well known.” Planir resumed his seat, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair as he steepled his fingers. His face was amiable. “I imagine you’re both equal to such questions.”
“That’s no answer and you know it.” Troanna’s response was curt. “Those coming here to explore their affinity deserve guidance from the leading proficients in each and every element.”
“I agree.” Planir’s expression was more serious. “Which is why I won’t rush such a crucial decision.”
“All delay gets you is dirt and long nails,” Troanna retorted.
Kalion took another bun with a casual air. “It would be quite proper for you to nominate two or three candidates to the Council and ask for a vote. There’s plenty of precedent for such appointments.”
“The Council won’t select Rafrid,” Troanna warned. “He can’t be Cloud Master and run a hall.”
Kalion’s laugh was forced. “He can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.”
Planir looked at him, unsmiling. “You have a point to make?”
Troanna was unmoved by the chill in the Archmage’s voice. “You say you’re so busy? Perhaps you should set aside some duties. Let the Council choose a new Stone Master at the same time as the Cloud Master we need.”
“Or Mistress,” interjected Kalion.
Planir shrugged dismissively. “I’m hardly the first Archmage to be an Element Master at the same time.”
“Sooner or later, they all relinquished the lesser duty,” said Troanna bluntly. “I thought you’d have the wit to see the necessity sooner, Planir.”
“Archmage, you’ve naturally been preoccupied with guiding Hadrumal through the last few years’ upheavals in the wider world.” Kalion’s sincerity was unaffected by the cream smudging his plump chin. “It’s no reflection on your abilities but can you honestly claim to have time for assessing some apprentice’s notions on the cohesion of rock?”
“What if these Elietimm with their peculiar enchantments reappear?” Troanna spoke mercilessly over him. “Can Hadrumal stay uninvolved if they threaten Tormalin or Kellarin again? As Archmage, you’ll have Emperor Tadriol, the dukes of Lescar, the Caladhrian Parliament and whoever else come running in a panic and asking for our aid.”
“What if they attack Hadrumal itself?” Kalion’s ruddy cheeks paled and recollection haunted his eyes. “We’ve seen their abhorrence of wizardry. You’ll need a full nexus of Element Masters backing you to work quintessential magic to stop them.”
“I hardly think it’ll come to that.” Planir took up his fruit juice and sipped it with unconcern.
“No?” Troanna’s scepticism was biting. “Otrick was my friend and this Artifice left his mind dead within him. I can’t forget that. Nor do I want to sit vigil over any more living corpses because you were tied up in disputes over pupillage agreements when you were needed to defend someone else.”
“Set the Elietimm aside, Archmage.” Food abandoned, Kalion leaned earnest elbows on the table. “Even without them, your duties as Archmage increase with every season from what I can see. Hadrumal is committed to helping these people in Kellarin. They need our magecraft to sail the very oceans, never mind anything else. You’ve extended invitations to any wizards in Solura who might care to study here. You’ve been talking about pursuing Usara’s discovery of magebirth among the Mountain and the Forest races. We have Mentor Tonin trying to search out Artifice’s secrets and Vanam’s scholars visiting here while our mages travel to their university. The pace is hardly going to slacken. All we ask is you consider setting aside some of your other burdens.”
“Perhaps.” A line appeared between Planir’s fine black brows. “I’d be a fool to let my scones burn because I wouldn’t let anyone else at the griddle, wouldn’t I? If Hadrumal needs a new Stone Master, Usara’s the obvious candidate.”
Troanna narrowed suspicious eyes. “What dedication has he shown to the proper study of magecraft lately?”
“He and Shiv have been seeing how mages might work together in lesser combinations than a full nexus,” Planir offered.
“I fail to see how he’ll have made much progress when he spent all last summer traipsing round with the scaff and raff of the mainland backwoods.” Kalion leaned back to fold thick forearms over his substantial girth. “Not even representing Hadrumal to anyone of influence.”
“Then he wasted the winter breaking his nails trying to pick aetheric lore out of that collection of old Forest songs and whatever myths that Mountain lass he dragged back here could think up.” Troanna was contemptuous. “Mentor Tonin is welcome to indulge such intellectual curiosity but it’s hardly the province of wizards.”
“You wouldn’t welcome some Artifice of our own to counter the Elietimm?” Planir asked blandly.
“I would if there was any sign of it, Archmage.” Kalion sounded genuinely regretful. “But there’s none beyond the simplest tricks, is there?”
Troanna looked at him unsmiling. “We would do better to meet any aetheric assault with tried and tested magic worked by a full nexus of Element Masters.”
“There are more candidates for Stone Master than Usara.” Kalion barely let the Flood Mistress finish speaking. “Galen has been examining the fundamental assumptions underpinning our understanding of the element of earth.”
“I had no idea.” The Archmage shook his head thoughtfully. “But he hasn’t initiated any discussion that I’m aware of and I do keep current with such things, the earth being my own affinity. Kalion, you should drop Ga
len a hint to share his conclusions, otherwise people will only think him good for the latest gossip.” There was a barb in Planir’s casual geniality.
“Usara is far too young to have any credibility with the older mages,” Troanna said with finality. “He hasn’t the experience to claim pre-eminence in his element, no matter what his recent reputation as an adventurer might be.”
“While Galen has spent so long in Kalion’s shadow, he has no reputation of his own at all.” Planir met Troanna’s stern gaze calmly. “Who could be confident he’d be sympathetic to some apprentice’s adolescent confusions or could summon the necessary diplomacy when two mages dispute a pupillage? There’s more to mastery than pure study, as you know better than anyone.”
He sprang to his feet, crossing the room to stand by the window. “There’s no obvious candidate for Cloud Master — or Mistress — any more than there is for Stone Master. True, I could offer a handful of each to the Council but do you think any would command a consensus? I don’t—and I certainly don’t want Hadrumal splitting into factions and backbiting when, as you so rightly say, Troanna, we must be wary of threats from outside. The Elietimm have been quiescent since their attempt to stir revolt in the Mountains was foiled but we cannot relax our vigilance just yet. Kalion, your hopes of greater influence on the mainland may finally be realised with this new understanding we’ve come to with Tadriol over Kellarin. Even the appearance of dissension among ourselves could undermine all the work you’ve done to convince people of Hadrumal’s potential to help them. It never takes much to revive the suspicions and misinformation that plague wizardry’s reputation in the mainland.”
“Ifs and buts are no excuse for inaction, Planir.” Troanna was unimpressed. “This situation is intolerable and, as Archmage, your duty is to resolve it.”
Kalion’s jowled face creased with dissatisfaction. “And quickly.”
“Hasty with the whip and the horse may stumble,” warned Planir. “I’m sure the best candidate will become apparent in time.”
Troanna snorted. “Or you’ll spend so long looking, you’ll pass over an adequate one. Better ride a donkey that carries you than a horse that’s always bucking.”
“I’ll find a proverb to trade you for that one tomorrow,” Planir smiled.
Troanna stood. “This is no matter for levity.”
She looked at Kalion and the stout mage reluctantly rose to his feet. She ushered him out of the room, neither mage saying anything further before she closed the door with an emphatic clunk.
Planir looked at the plain oak panels for a long moment before slinging his robe haphazard over the back of his chair. Weariness at odds with the early hour carved deep lines in his face now as the animation left it. He moved to the window, looking down as Kalion and Troanna disappeared beneath the arched gateway. Holding out his hand, he studied the great diamond ring of his office, sunlight catching the faceted gem set around with emerald, amber, ruby and sapphire, all the ancient tokens of the elements of wizardry. On the finger beside it, he wore a battered circle of silver. Whatever device had decorated it was long since worn to obscurity.
The Archmage clenched his fist and closed his grey eyes on a grimace of regret and frustration. The glasses Kalion and Troanna had used began to tremble slightly, a faint rattle from the table beneath. The dregs of plum cordial suddenly ignited in a startled flame while the untouched water in the larger goblet began to seethe before breaking into a rolling boil. The fluted bowl of the cordial glass folded in on itself, the long stem wilting. The water glass sank beside it, empty of all but a fugitive trace of steam, the broad foot spreading into a formless puddle. The gloss of the polished wood beneath was unmarred.
“Childish.” Planir said reprovingly to himself before opening his eyes with a wicked grin. “But satisfying.” Tossing the now cold and solid glass into an ash bucket by the hearth, he pulled a well-worn jerkin from the back of the door, shrugging it on as his light tread echoed rapidly down the stairwell.
Vithrancel, Kellarin,
15th of Aft-Spring
Why are people always so eager to give you gifts?” I followed Halice out of the trading hall.
“It won’t be my beauty, so it must be my charm.” Halice offered me the little mint-lined basket of withy strips.
I took a sticky sweetmeat and nodded at Temar’s residence. “His lordship’s back.” The bold flag fluttered jauntily.
“Let’s see what he’s got to say for himself.” Halice curled her lip.
“Mind your manners,” I warned, mock serious.
“Me? Who served the Duchess of Marlier?” Halice pretended outrage.
“Who got dismissed for giving her mouthy daughter a slap,” I pointed out.
“She deserved it.” Halice laughed.
We turned down what looked to be a lane at first glance, running between the trading hall and Temar’s residence. Inside the latter, hammers still echoed and saws rasped over the much interrupted and delayed business of making it fit for a Sieur’s dignity. Two lads barely older that Tedin sat in a doorway dutifully straightening scavenged nails. One scooped a few from rain-dulled tiles at his feet. Their broken patterns beneath the gravel and the stumps of pillars buried in the new stone of the walls on either side were the last remnants of a great hall that had once stood here. But the roof was long since fallen and the mighty walls only offered a few broken courses so the colonists had merely taken them as a guide for new buildings raised around the shell of the old hall. We passed carved embellishments worn featureless by generations of rain.
The one elegant doorway that had survived above head height was now the entrance to Temar’s private quarters at the back of the tall building. Halice pushed open the door without ceremony. Once the carpenters had fitted out the reception rooms, archive and private salons necessary for the rank the Emperor had confirmed him in, Temar might be able to turn this into suitable accommodation for the Sieur D’Alsennin’s servants but for the present, the lower floor was undecorated with crude screens at one end inadequately masking a kitchen and a private chamber for Temar above reached by a plain wooden stair.
Temar and Ryshad stood behind a long table up at the far end, poring over a slew of charts with a couple of other people bending their heads close.
“Master Grethist got an ocean boat up to this cataract.” Temar tapped the map with a long finger. “With sail barges, we can explore further.”
So they were planning another expedition. If Ryshad was going, perhaps I should tag along. Summer in Vithrancel didn’t promise to be overly interesting without him.
“Portage over that ground will be a trial and a half.” A black-haired woman, sedate in a homespun tunic over undyed skirts traced a line with a chipped nail. “It’s far more broken than the slope on this side.” She looked up at our approach.
“Rosarn.” Halice greeted her with a familiar nod. The woman’s homely appearance was deceptive; Rosarn had been a mercenary longer than any bar Halice and as soon as Temar gave the word, she’d be in boots and leathers, daggers sheathed at hip and wrist, ready to cut her way through thickets a squirrel would rather go round. Half the corps commanders in Lescar went looking for her if they needed an enemy position scouted out or a potential advance reconnoitred. She specialised in tasks demanding light feet and the wit to think fast on them.
“How far did you get, Vas?” Ryshad, the love if not of my life then certainly of these past three years, brushed at his black curls in absent thought.
“Here at autumn Equinox.” Vaspret set a stubby finger on the parchment. Stocky, weather-beaten and with manners as ill made as his much-broken nose, he had come to Kel Ar’Ayen as one the original venturers and sailed on the first explorations of the continent’s coasts with the long-dead Master Grethist.
“To retrace Vahil Den Rannion’s route, we should really be using the caves.” Whatever they were planning, Rosarn was clearly looking forward to it. I’d heard her say more than once a whole continent to explore without
risk of a Lescari arrow in the guts was a gift from Talagrin.
Temar was fair-skinned by nature and the spring sun had yet to tint his winter pallor but I saw him blench from where I stood. Ryshad looked sharply at Rosarn and a shadow darkened his amber-flecked brown eyes. Then he saw me and smiled, affection softening the stern lines of his long jaw and broad brow. I smiled back and the minor discontents of the day vanished like morning mist on the river.
“We want an overland route to join the two rivers,” D’Alsennin said with a touch too much firmness. He searched for some other map. “We can hardly take wagons or mules through caves, even if the route Vahil used is still passable, by some miracle of Misaen’s grace.”
And you’d rather face invading Elietimm single-handed than spend any time out of reach of daylight, my lad. I’d no idea if it was Temar who’d originally been afraid of the dark or Ryshad in some childhood fastness of his mind. Perhaps it was some echo of the imprisonment in Edisgesset’s sunless caverns that they’d both tasted, caught in the toils of Artifice. Whatever the case, both men now shared an abiding fear of enclosed spaces and I kept waking to an open bedroom door because Ryshad couldn’t sleep with it shut.
But Ryshad was older than Temar by a double handful of years and more. He set his jaw, visibly ignoring his own qualms. “Is there any chance the missing artefacts could have been lost in the caves, before Vahil got to the ships?”
Vahil Den Rannion, Temar’s boyhood friend and now twenty-some generations ashes in his urn, had borne the task of taking the sleeping minds of Kellarin’s people beyond the greedy Elietimm grasp. He’d found a way through the caves that riddled the high ground between Vithrancel’s river and another that ran down to a second settlement in the south barely founded before the Elietimm scourge arrived. I wouldn’t have wagered a lead penny on his chances but, against all the odds, Vahil had won back across the ocean, only to find the Empire collapsing around Nemith the Worthless’s ears. Every noble House had been too busy saving its own skin to spare any thought for a colony all but written off a year or more since.
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