by Marc Secchia
“One Sorceress, acting alone, is hardly a match for the Council!”
“Let me tell you something, Eliyan. There was one man. His name was Lucan. And he created the Banishment!”
Blast him, the man chuckled. I was snorting like an enraged jerlak in his face and Eliyan started chortling away as though he intended never to stop. He kept trying to speak, but then dissolved into laughter until he began to splutter and I had to clap him on the back–and not gently, given my ire–to help him recover.
Finally he managed, “Very good, my friend. I submit to your argument. I did not think you capable of losing your temper.”
“I was provoked.”
“Or perhaps this fair flower has made a man of you,” offered the Sorcerer. My thin-lipped response to his comment occasioned a further snort of mirth. “Aye, the Arlak of old might not have spoken so boldly. An opprobrious development. Is it much further?”
But I had another surprise for him.
We walked on a space, up to secluded arbour in a quiet corner of the Gardens of Serendipity. P’dáronï and Amal had agreed to meet us there, should I conclude that my approach to Eliyan had proceeded well.
En route, the First Councillor added, “I should not chuckle over matters so troubling, Arlak, but I’m greatly amused that despite our best efforts, so few things have remained hidden from you. That our dance of courteous little words is at end, delights me. And I hope that the truth will now finally emerge from that bastion, that fortress, my friend, you mark your mind. Even if it changes all Eldoran as I know it …”
Ay, and by this, I knew my trust in him was not misplaced.
His voice trailed off as an overawed young couple approached us along the path. We exchanged formal greetings. When we had passed by, Eliyan said, “Do you have more detail to add to what you told me before?”
“Much,” I admitted.
Eliyan shook his head. “What I would not give to unwind history!”
Truly told, and I a hundred thousand times more fervently than he. “Here we are.” In the Eldrik way, I performed introductions, “First Councillor Eliyan, I am pleased to present P’dáronï of Armittal, of the Guild of Physicians.”
He bowed his head; she touched her heart with her right hand then gracefully extended her palm for his formal kiss.
“Also I’m pleased to present Amal of Eldoran.” Amal drew back her hood and regarded the Sorcerer solemnly. “A relative of mine, I believe.”
Admittedly, I enjoyed the moment he froze over her hand, powerless to complete the act of kissing it as he struggled to process what he had just heard. His face went so pallid I thought he might swoon. Eliyan’s mouth worked, but not a word would emerge.
And it gave me even greater guilty satisfaction to add: “Great-grandchild of the Sorcerer Lucan. As, apparently, am I.”
Amal and I had attempted to work out our lineage in hushed council at my holia. But Eliyan had access to other resources. Taking our information, he vanished for several makh to investigate, while we separately made our eventide ablutions and repast.
After the makh of eventide, the First Councillor’s servants summoned me to a small chamber hidden in the basement of his palatial dwelling. The dark, dressed-stone walls and ceiling reflected no light. Two argan-oil lamps huddled in sconces on the walls made deep shadows of the corners, and cast a luminous sheen across a central Ort-marble table’s perfectly circular, highly polished surface. It appeared to be carved of a single hunk of the signature red-speckled, very expensive marble from Damantia, and was ringed by six comfortable wingback chairs.
Three of these were already claimed by P’dáronï, Eliyan, and Amal.
As I paused in the entryway, glancing about the chamber, I had a sense of hiding as though we feared the light of day.
“Be seated,” Eliyan commanded, indicating a space to his left. He was as agitated as I had ever seen him, for a man who patently preferred dark sweeping robes and gravitas to any appearance of haste–an affectation that irritated me no end. “We haven’t waited long. Most Sorcerers have such a chamber for secret business, so our meeting here this makh will not occasion undue comment. Mine is a little more special than most.”
As I took my seat, the Sorcerer lifted his hands. “Seal.”
I flinched as tongues of fire raced around the walls, licking hungrily up to the ceiling and spreading across the floor almost before I could lift my boots. I saw now that arcane symbols covered every last dyndigit of stone surrounding us, for the flame burnished them into a living, ever-shifting tapestry. And the entryway had vanished–at least, I could no longer distinguish it from the other walls.
“Now we may speak freely.”
Dark eyes pinned me with an intense glare. “I demanded your silence because the danger is extreme. Not only do factions in the Council seek to usurp my authority, but the Interrogators daily increase their power. This at least has forced a measure of unity in the Council. But I have limits, such as having to allow the Interrogators at you, Arlak-torfea, when I first brought you to Eldoran. I regret that–terribly.”
I nodded without speaking.
“By speaking further with P’dáronï or Amal, you might have laid bare your secrets via the gyael-irfa–and that would have spelled no less than our ruin.”
I nodded again. “Ay. I do not partake, but they do.”
“Too true. Another of El Shashi’s mysteries.” Eliyan changed tack immediately. “So then, to business. I spoke this afternoon to my twin sister Freythien–that is, Amal’s maternal grandmother.”
Amal gasped. “You prised her away from Talan?”
“Ha! My dear, if you only knew.” She arched an eyebrow. “There are ways twins may converse privately through the gyael-irfa.”
P’dáronï and Amal exclaimed in surprise, but I did not find this so extraordinary–perhaps due to my lack of experience. Indeed, during my anna in Eldoran I had begun to feel a sharing or melding of minds and personalities around me, but my own mind remained stubbornly locked away from partaking in my Eldrik heritage. Why?
Janos. Truly told, Janos and his sly, secretive ways. Oh I loved him, make no mistake. But there was a dagger of suspicion implanted in my mind, now, that I knew with certainty had cut close to an unrealised truth. He had done something to me. To my mind. He had hidden me from the gyael-irfa … Janos of the guardtower will, Jyla had said. Somehow, he had been able to ensure that not even the combined power of the Interrogators of Eldoran could break into my mind. How was that even possible?
The question was: would my being exposed to the gyael-irfa have helped, or hastened my demise? I might never know now that he was dead.
“Indeed,” Eliyan said, clearly enjoying the impact of his disclosure. “Am I assured of your uttermost discretion in this matter? Thank you.”
Amal said, “This surely cannot be known to the Interrogators?”
“Quite, quite.” Eliyan’s eyes glittered in the semidarkness. I was minded again of his cunning. He was similar to Janos, I realised suddenly. They were as blood-brothers in this love of unusual, arcane knowledge, and of educating those they regarded as requiring it. “There are many subtleties to the gyael-irfa which we would prefer remained unidentified–for it remains the whole foundation of the Interrogators’ work.”
The First Councillor glanced from P’dáronï to Amal. “Before we leave this place I must teach you the lost art of Dissembling. But I must warn you, it is an offence punishable by Banishment. I’ve no need to tell you what becomes of those who rebel against our beautiful Eldrik harmony, do I?”
“Too late already.” Amal met his glare with one of her own.
“True again. But should the gyael-irfa’s integrity be questioned … there would be almighty consequences for all Eldrik, from the highest to the lowest. Do you understand, Arlak?”
“I think so,” I muttered, running the conversation back through my mind. My response slipped out unbidden. “The Interrogators must rely on each individual being wholly a
ccessible to the gyael-irfa in order to spy–I suppose you would say–on their thoughts and lives? As in, the resonance of the individual mind within the pattern of the gyael-irfa?”
Eliyan’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. “My dear young man, where in Mata’s name did you learn that?”
I was as surprised as he was. “I … I’m not sure.”
Janos again? It must be! I was so close to understanding something fundamental about my nature, and my past, that my stomach churned with nausea–but it remained stubbornly beyond my reach, a firefly dancing through the outer darkness of my mind.
“That’s exactly why we need to get in here!” exclaimed the Sorcerer, reaching over to rap my skull with his forefinger. “The Interrogators failed with all their brute force to extract it from you. We need subtlety. But first, before I question you until your voice is hoarse, allow me to explain what Freythien shared with me. Amal’s lineage is clear. Lucan made the Matabond with Yorenna and had but one son, Talan, who is head of the Interrogators. Talan and Freythien’s union was prearranged by their parents primarily due of the potential of their powers–they wanted, and I quote, an ideal breeding-pair to produce powerful Sorcerers and Warlocks. They produced three children–Aulynni, Emory, and Shannos. Aulynni produced Arn, Lucian, Jyllian, and you, Amal.”
“But Aulynni never–”
“No. She was Matabound to none.” Eliyan turned his oftentimes unsettling gaze upon Amal. “Forgive me, my child, but do you know who your father is?”
She shook her head, letting her long ebony hair slide forward to hide her face. Suddenly I empathised with her vulnerability. Mata’s truth, beneath that glittering power beat a heart akin to mine, which yearned to know of her heritage and loss. “No,” Amal said tightly. “There were men I remember, yes, but I did not have long enough with my mother to learn his identity.”
“Any Umarites?” I blurted out. “Forgive me, forgive the question.”
“No …” mused Eliyan, stroking his beard. “No indeed. It’s entirely possible, given your astounding likeness, that you shared a father–perhaps the sea captain Orik, of whom we have spoken … spoke you truthfully?”
“Truly told, Orik is my father.”
“Then I must meditate upon this matter. Another makh, perhaps.” He dismissed this topic with a wave of his fingers and sprang into brisk summary. “But here is what we know: Lucan had affairs. A number of them. In those days it was not uncommon, especially amongst the powerful elite. We know Arlak’s mother was called Alannah. While Alannah is a common enough name, the number of Warlocks so named is unremarkable, and even less remarkable, those who disappeared from Eldoran but do not appear on the rolls of the Banished. Freythien told me of a certain Syialla, whose fifth daughter was a Warlock named Alannah, who disappeared mysteriously in just such circumstances. It is whispered Syialla was the daughter of Sherilla, one of Lucan’s mistresses–but that would be difficult to prove, given the thoroughness with which Talan has hunted down and destroyed any potential incriminating evidence against the purity of Lucan’s descendants.”
I watched the lantern light playing across Amal’s composed features, even as Eliyan’s stern finale brought a shiver to my spine. Maybe half-sister, maybe twin, definitely family! Was my father, Orik, hiding yet another secret? I asked, “Where is your mother now, Amal?”
“She is numbered on the rolls of the Banished.”
P’dáronï found Amal’s hand and squeezed it. “Peace upon you, Amal-nish.” And the spasm which had contorted the muscles of Amal’s jaw appeared to pass.
“Talan it was,” added the young Sorceress, “who in his own hand, wrote Aulynni’s name upon the roll. How grievously it wounded his family … words fail to bear witness.”
After a moment, P’dáronï’s face turned towards Eliyan’s place. “Honourable Councillor, be not afraid to speak your heart,” she whispered.
Eliyan drew a ragged breath, his face at last open, and drawn with grief. “Child, you see more than any of us. Aye, then, let me speak plain. Let it be known that Talan and I were once best of friends. Brothers, in all but blood. We shared all. Life, love, the deep joys of the gyael-irfa. But there came a day we quarrelled–over Aulynni’s love. We split. Things were said that day … bitter, binding things. Breaking things.”
His words fell with a sore weight upon our company. But after a time, the Sorcerer seemed to return from a faraway place.
“I would speak of … less painful times.” His gaze became lidded, heavy. “Friends, I concur with the view that Aulynni was the most talented Sorceress of her generation. More powerful than I; almost certainly more powerful than Lucan himself. She was striking in countenance, and possessed of a brilliant, but fragile, mind–an arrogant brilliance, easily capable of conceiving of what others dared not dream. I think we men were all half in love with her. But something happened between her and Talan one day that set them at odds with each other. After that, I do believe he feared her more than he loved her.”
“She hated the Banishment,” P’dáronï interjected. “Tell him, Arlak.”
Closing my eyes, I summoned the vision. Seared on my mind, I could recount it word for word.
After my rendition had chilled the room, causing the four of us to instinctively huddle towards the table like chicks in a nest seeking their mother’s absent warmth, Eliyan said, “Well! That explains much. But you must know, Arlak, the Interrogators never saw your face. Talan never saw you. You were locked in a cell beneath their tower, attended by servants, while they attempted to break into your mind in concert, augmenting their powers, from the Chamber of Seeing. If he had–if Talan only knew who he was dealing with–you would be dead now.”
“Surely, Amal, you would’ve been recognised–”
“Not so, P’dáronï. I am not much in the public eye. I never have been. Talan wanted nothing more than to disown us after my mother caused him so much trouble and embarrassment. Even if the servants knew, they must have kept silent for fear of him.”
“Or loyalty to you.”
Amal nodded solemnly. “You are ever too kind, P’dáronï-nish, in seeking the good in people.”
Their friendship, the use again of the diminutive ‘nish’ indicating the closeness of relationship, made me miss Janos terribly. I was thinking of him, when Eliyan spoke words I had secretly been dreading since I found out about Amal:
“But we cannot rely on this remaining a secret for long. Talan or his cronies shall catch scent of this fruit and a new wave of Banishment shall rise like a stormtide. Great care is needed. Great caution. And this woman Jyla–I cannot help wonder if she is not Aulynni, somehow returned from the Dark Isle–is still seeking you with all her resources and energies, Arlak.” His voice crackled with excitement, “But to un-banish the Banished …? Impossible! No, it cannot be her. Or can it … what a mystery! Myki Mahdros, she calls herself. The one who lives again, the reincarnate!”
Eliyan sighed hugely, the tide of his excitement withdrawing to leave a tired man in its wake. “The historians call Talan’s signature work ‘the Second Purge’. There were new lists drawn up, new standards of purity to attain, new enemies to Banish, a second wave of hysterical Lucanism that sought and found shadows where there were none. Everyone lived in fear of the Interrogators. Few families were spared. In those days I was nought but a young, ambitious Sorcerer who did not dare act contrary to his elders and betters–no matter what I thought in private. I was a coward.”
As P’dáronï inclined her face toward him, the lamplight played along the high arches of her cheekbones and tiny glints of gold winked to life in her hair. I was half-dwelling upon the enchantment of her beauty, half-reflecting upon the moment she masked Janos’ eavesdropping from Talan’s notice. What presence of mind from a mere child! How did she know? What part had Janos played in these tragic events? What part had P’dáronï yet to play?
She said, “The overthrow of power was not anticipated, honourable Councillor. You cannot and must
not shoulder the blame for events which many more experienced Sorcerers did not anticipate. This guilt is not upon your shoulders.”
She spoke to the First Councillor as few dared, I thought. As an equal. As one who had insight and experience beyond her anna. This from a ‘mere’ Armittalese slave? I was not the only one in the room hiding secrets.
“P’dáronï,” I interrupted. “You were there that day. Did you see–sorry, did you sense Janos’ presence? You hid him, didn’t you? Why?”
“She was there in your vision?”
I smiled at Eliyan. “Truly told, P’dáronï was the other child with Amal. How shocked I was to discover her here, taken flesh.”
Amal whispered, “I remember it well, the day that sealed my mother’s doom. But I do not remember this man you call Janos.”
“I do not rightly recall.” P’dáronï’s shoulders lifted. “He was a strange one. And yes, I sense things, Arlak. In my own way, I see–differently to you, of course, but I am not without perception. I sensed his goodness. I concealed him because I felt it was the right thing to do.”
“But … why?”
“I was a child, with a child’s understanding of the world,” P’dáronï responded with gentle simplicity. “Just as I felt that man then, I am able to sense your Web of Sulangi, Arlak–and today it is close. Close indeed to this place.”
My fingers tried to leave dents in the tabletop. “What?”
“Listening?” suggested Amal.
The darkness in the corners swelled. It sprouted fingers, talons, closed in upon me from all sides in a roaring wave. Next I knew, I was on the floor looking upward. Eliyan was smiling the smile he reserved for when he was trying to be inscrutable–First Councillor, great Sorcerer, all those jatha-droppings, I thought sourly. But I was unhurt.
