But on the other hand, the Walasian Empire held sixteen provinces, eleven margravates, and some hundreds of towns; the Grand Council would be made up of twice that number. It would not be impossible for the two men to avoid each other in such a crowd.
Valin’s idealism, too, would surely be rendered harmless in such a crowd . . .
“Done,” Dorias said, holding out his hand to his fosterling. “You shall be my delegate to the Grand Council. And that is one less foolish concern troubling me!”
“Uncle,” Anrel said, “there is no need for haste—”
“Nor is there any reason for delay,” Valin said. “Thank you, Magister!” He bowed.
“Let him have plenty of time to get ready,” Dorias said to Anrel. “After all, he needs to be in Lume in less than a season.”
“He can be ready in a day, and reach Lume in five!” Anrel protested.
“But why rush so?”
“Exactly, my lord—why rush? At least give it a day’s thought . . .”
“Anrel,” Valin said, his tone hurt, “I thought you would be pleased on my behalf.”
“I am!” Anrel said, startled. “But I . . . I am of a cautious disposition in such matters, and would not see you caught up in something you may later regret. Could you not both give this a day’s thought, before determining it so definitely?”
“No need!” Dorias said, clapping Anrel on the shoulder. “I know a good idea when I hear it, and this one has all the earmarks. You turned the position down, Anrel; I would say that forfeits any claim you might have to a say in who takes it.”
“I do not question—” He broke off in midsentence, and sighed. “As you will, then, Uncle. I have no desire to vex you. I confess, I can see every argument in favor of such a choice, while those opposed seem hazy and ill-defined; I assure you, it is only my natural caution and my love for you both that impels me to ask whether there may be risks or drawbacks we have not yet considered.”
“Caution is a worthy trait,” Dorias said, “but there are times when boldness and instinct will serve as well. I am content with my choice. It relieves my mind. I prefer to have it over and done, and so it is.”
“As you say, Uncle.”
“That’s settled, then.” Dorias plucked the letter from Anrel’s hand and tossed it on a table, then strode out of the room, smiling.
“Anrel, why did you—” Valin began, stepping over toward Anrel.
“I will miss you, Valin,” Anrel interrupted.
Valin stopped. “Oh,” he said.
“If we are both to spend years in Lume, I would have preferred that those years coincide,” Anrel said. “Alas, they will not.”
“Perhaps you can come to Lume to clerk for me,” Valin said. “Or perhaps you might be chosen as one of the commoners.”
Anrel shook his head. “No. I would not accept such a choice. I am very tired of Lume, Valin, and of the empire’s politics. Four years there was more than enough for me, at least for the present. Even the pleasure of your company cannot draw me back there so soon.”
“Oh,” Valin said again.
“There is something more,” Anrel said. “You realize that Lord Allutar’s selection is to be the landgrave himself? The two of you will be serving together in the delegation from Aulix. For the sake of the House of Adirane and the people of Alzur, you must restrain your feelings toward the man and present a united front to the world.”
“He chooses himself? Is that what that footman told you?” Valin grimaced. “The man has no shame.”
“He certainly does not bother with false modesty,” Anrel said, noting without surprise that Valin had failed to register Lord Allutar’s intention.
“It’s good, then, that I will be there to remind him that he is merely mortal,” Valin said with a wolfish grin.
“Oh, no,” Anrel said warningly. “He is still the landgrave of Aulix. Do not vex him needlessly.”
“Needlessly? But I think such arrogance does need to be punctured.”
“Valin, as long as you remain tied to Alzur, you will have to live with Lord Allutar; surely it would be better to have peace between you!”
“No, I do not think it would,” Valin replied, still smiling. “A man can be judged by his foes, don’t you think? One who never makes an enemy can hardly be much of a man at all! Let all see that I have chosen the very essence of sorcerous pride as my nemesis, and that I fear him not a whit.”
“Perhaps you should fear him!”
“I fear no one, Anrel, not even the emperor himself. I have right on my side, and the spirits of our ancestors, human and divine, will see that I thrive thereby.”
“Father and Mother, Valin, you make such a claim, and then you say Lord Allutar is arrogant?”
Valin laughed. “You catch me out, Anrel! Yet I do believe I am fully in the right in what I am undertaking. The empire’s structure is rotten, can you not see that? The bad wood needs to be cut away, and fresh wood set in its place, and I have no doubt that Lord Allutar represents the very worst sort of decay.”
“I know you believe that,” Anrel said. “For my own part, I am not entirely convinced. And even if it is the simple truth, be wary that you do not bring it all down upon your head when you tap repeatedly at that rotted beam. Remember what befell Uru—the baker’s son.”
Valin’s laughter faded. “That is why I can never live in peace with Lord Allutar,” he said. “He killed a boy for a spell!”
“A spell that may have saved the livelihoods of many farmers, and perhaps filled hundreds of hungry bellies.”
“A few missed meals to save a man’s life? I think that a bad bargain.”
“I think you misjudge the severity of the crop failures.” In fact, Anrel suspected that Valin, despite his commoner heritage, had no real concept of what true hunger was like, or that those failed harvests would cost real lives. Anrel might not have understood the reality himself if he had not seen some of what he had seen in Lume, and had not fought the axe-wielding thief in the Adiranes’ grove.
“Why are you determined to make excuses for the man?” Valin asked, annoyed. “You claim to dislike him as much as I do, yet you constantly argue on his behalf!”
“I am striving for objectivity, as I have been trained to do,” Anrel said. “You seem determined to condemn him, so when speaking with you I look for extenuating circumstances. To my cousin, who seems to see Lord Allutar through a golden haze, I am more likely to focus on his shortcomings.”
“Ah, then you are determined to disagree with everyone, rather than to take any specific position! I hardly think that is the sort of objectivity your professors had in mind. Do you think there is no actual right or wrong here, no just assessment of the facts?”
“I do not think either you or Lady Saria has arrived at so flawless a view that I should not quibble. Lord Allutar is neither hero nor monster, but a man like the rest of us.” He could not help smiling and adding, “Albeit a most aggravating one.”
“And arrogant, Anrel. It is the sheer gall of the man that affronts me.”
“And arrogant, yes. But he is the landgrave of Aulix, and likely to remain so. He is, like yourself, to be a member of the Grand Council, and as you have told me yourself, there can be no higher authority in Walasia than the council. He is a powerful sorcerer, a man of ancient and honorable family, holder of extensive lands, and rumored to be the heir to certain unique talents and bindings. His mind and will are strong, and he has the emperor’s favor. His arrogance is not empty. If you truly wish to aid the people of Alzur and the rest of Aulix, then it does not serve you well to antagonize their master.”
Valin stared at him for a moment before replying, “They taught you well in Lume—I cannot but acknowledge that you have a point.” He shrugged. “Perhaps a majority of the council will see him as I do, and strip him of his lands and titles—but for now, you are right. I should not go out of my way to trouble him, and for your sake, for Lady Saria’s sake, and for the sake of the people of Alzur, I
will not, I promise you. But note, I say ‘go out of my way.’ I cannot hold my tongue should he commit some other enormity, nor will I.”
“I would not ask it,” Anrel said.
“Then we understand each other.”
“And that being said, shall we go find Ziral, and see if he can find us some entertaining beverage with which to celebrate your appointment to the Grand Council?”
“An excellent idea, my dear Anrel!”
With that, the two of them headed for the kitchens, in search of the butler and his key to the wine cellar.
11
In Which Lord Valin Breaks His Promise
The following day a message arrived for Lord Dorias, saying that Lord Allutar hoped to call on him and his daughter that evening. Dorias promptly sent a reply assuring the landgrave that he would be made welcome.
He then summoned Anrel.
“Yes, Uncle?” Anrel said, as he entered Dorias’s study. “Anrel, my dear boy,” Dorias said, shifting in his chair so that the leather upholstery creaked. “While I am delighted to have you here, do you not find the quiet evenings here tedious, after the excitements of Lume?”
Anrel considered this for a moment, debating whether or not he should pretend to be unaware of his uncle’s purpose, and decided to save everyone some time and avoid the possibility of misunderstanding, at the cost of any pretense of civility.
“Not in the least,” he said, “but I take your true intent to be to ask that I take Valin elsewhere this evening, so that he and Lord Allutar might more readily avoid each other.”
Dorias blinked, then seemed to sag in his chair. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I don’t know what it is with that young man; he seems to take an unnatural delight in angering the landgrave.”
“I think he has appointed himself Urunar Kazien’s avenger, Uncle,” Anrel said. “Though why he feels that troublesome youth deserves avenging I am not entirely sure. Perhaps Valin took too much to heart Lord Blackfield’s admonitions against black magic.”
“Perhaps so. Trust a Quandishman to stir up trouble, eh? At any rate, I would very much prefer that Lord Allutar hear of Valin’s selection as my delegate from me, rather than from Valin.”
“A worthy goal, my lord uncle.” He sketched a bow. “I will do what I can to keep Lord Valin entertained elsewhere.”
“Thank you, Anrel.” Dorias shook his head. “There are times I think it very perverse of the Father and Mother to have given Valin sorcery, and left you with none.”
“I am quite content with my lot, Uncle,” Anrel replied, retreating a step. “Remember what befell my parents—do you know, my very earliest memory is of stepping in their blood, and not understanding what it was? I know I then looked up and saw their bodies, and I am told I began screaming uncontrollably, but I do not recall that; I only remember feeling the sticky wetness under my shoe, and looking down to see what caused it.” He shuddered. “If sorcery carries such risks, I am just as pleased to live without it.”
“Oh, but!” Dorias protested. “Really, Anrel, you know better than that. You have lived with me for these, what, almost eighteen years—well, thirteen or fourteen, I suppose, if one doesn’t count your time in Lume. You have seen me perform any number of wardings and bindings. You have seen Lady Saria, little more than a child, and Lord Valin, who you know to sometimes show all the sense of a sparrow, cast any number of spells without suffering any harm. You have felt the resonances when Lord Allutar works enchantments that cover the entire province. Has any of us come to any harm thereby? What happened to your dear parents was a horror—I miss your mother to this day—and yes, it was to all appearances caused by sorcery gone wrong, but it was an almost unique tragedy. Its very nature remains a mystery. You might just as well fear walking out of doors lest you be struck by lightning.”
“There are those who will not walk in the rain for that very fear, Uncle,” Anrel replied.
“Which is completely foolish! Can you name a single other sorcerer who has been harmed by his magic?”
Anrel knew the question was rhetorical, but could not resist answering, “Lady Arissa Taline.”
“Lady . . . ?” Lord Dorias drew back his head and frowned for a moment, then shook it. “No, no, Anrel—I said by his own magic! Lady Arissa was murdered.”
“There is still no solid proof of that.”
“Every witness and divination says it must be so, though.”
“Witnesses and divinations may err.”
Lord Dorias hemmed and hawed briefly, then waved the matter away. “I think we cannot count her case for either side, then,” he said. “It’s of no matter. I tell you, Anrel, sorcery is a blessing.”
“Uncle, why would you have me think so, when I have failed the trial given me when I was little more than half my present age? What good can it do me to wish for it?”
“Oh, none, none! I just—” Dorias stopped and frowned, as he realized the uselessness of the argument.
“Suffice it to say, Uncle, that because I remember what I do, I do not in the least regret having failed the trial. Everything you say may be true, sorcery may be the greatest gift any can inherit from the Mother and Father of us all, but no matter what reason and logic may say, there is yet a terrified child in my heart who is very glad indeed that I could not cast a ward for the Lady Examiner, nor break the binding she placed upon me.”
Dorias sighed. “As you will, then. Will you keep Lord Valin elsewhere this evening?”
“I have said I will, Uncle.”
“Oh, of course you did. Thank you.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No, no. Thank you, that’s all.”
“Then I take my leave.” Anrel bowed, and left the room.
It seemed as if keeping Valin out of trouble was becoming a full-time occupation, a duty that both Lord Allutar and Lord Dorias laid upon him. This was hardly a career he would have chosen, but at least he was making himself useful, after a fashion. He was beginning to wonder how Valin had ever survived the four years of his absence.
There was no point in putting off his assigned task; it was not as if he found Valin’s company disagreeable. He had a good idea where he might find the young sorcerer, so he turned his footsteps toward the south terrace. As he had expected, he found Valin there, looking out across the hills from a wrought-iron chair, a glass of wine in his hand, a mostly empty bottle by his foot.
“Hello, Anrel,” Valin said, glancing up.
“Hello, Valin,” Anrel replied. He found another chair, and settled beside his friend. “Enjoying the weather?”
“Thinking about the future, rather,” Valin said. “Imagining what will become of all this when the old hierarchies are swept away.”
“I would say, if the old hierarchies are swept away,” Anrel answered. “Even with your appointment to the Grand Council, I hardly consider it a certainty that anything significant will change.”
“But it must! A system where men like Lord Allutar, ruthless killers with no thought for the lives of their people, rise to the top, cannot be permitted to stand.”
“It has stood for half a millennium.”
“Too long! Far, far too long!”
Anrel sighed. “You should read more history,” he said. “Consider Ermetia, where the kings and lords have no magic of their own; do you think their rulers have proven any less cruel than our own, or any less ruthless?”
Valin frowned.
“Or look at the Cousins, where most titles of nobility are entirely a matter of ancestry, often unconnected to sorcerous ability. In terms of vicious stupidity, pointless wars, and brutal savagery, there has been little to choose between those noblemen who perform their own magic, and those who must hire others to do it for them.”
“But those are barbarians,” Valin said. “What of Quand?”
Anrel hesitated. “Though I learned the language, I read only a little Quandish history in Lume,” he said. “Quandish authors seem oddly reticent about their nation’s
past. Perhaps they prefer to keep their internal quarrels on their own side of the Dragonlands.”
“Or perhaps they have found a system that rewards character and ability, and has no room for petty tyrants.”
“They’re still human, Valin,” Anrel said. “Most of them, at any rate—there are questions about some. Nor is their history entirely free of needless cruelty, by any means. Have you ever heard of Lord Westmoor? Or the Archmage Fimbin?”
“No,” Valin admitted.
“Along the western shores, I am told, they still use Westmoor’s name to frighten children. And they still haven’t found all of Fimbin’s bones, after better than a hundred years—a knucklebone turned up about eight years ago, completing the left hand, but half the right and several ribs are still lacking.”
Valin smiled indulgently. “You always had a fondness for stories, Anrel, while I prefer to study how the world works, so that I might see how to better it. The Quandish elect their rulers, and have outlawed black magic, and to me those seem to be improvements—improvements I would like to see made here in Walasia.”
“But they are not improvements in Quand, Valin! The Quandish have always chosen their Gathermen, and have never permitted dark sorcery. Those work for them, yes, because they are the way Quand has always been; here in Walasia, though, we have always done it our way.”
“Perhaps, though, it is time to try theirs,” Valin replied. “We are on the verge of famine, our emperor says he is bankrupt—is our situation so glorious that we really want to preserve it just as it is?”
“So you want to sweep away five hundred years of history, and make the Grand Council into a Walasian version of the Quandish Gathering?”
“Why not?” he demanded. “We might bring the empire to new heights of glory! With the unity of purpose an elected government can bring we might be able to reconquer Ermetia and the western Cousins, and finally restore the boundaries of the Old Empire.”
A Young Man Without Magic Page 11
