by J M Sanford
Still sobbing breathlessly, Morel patted her on the neck. “I know you want your freedom. You used to talk of it, all the time. Don’t you think I suffer the same? I’ve done everything I could to give you a good life, haven’t I? Didn’t I give you all this?” Morel hadn’t been meant to share the secrets of the Mage Hall kitchens with non-mages. It might be a little thing compared to effectively handing Ilgrevnia over to Archalthus all those years ago, but still he wouldn’t have done it for anyone but Scarlet…
The red griffin nodded. “You’ve been so good me and Sable, but what happened was an accident, don’t you see? Please don’t tell Master,” she begged. “I couldn’t bear to see Sable punished for an accident.”
To think, all this time, Morel had blamed himself for the ‘accident’ with the Orb of Helemneum. Worse, Archalthus had laid the blame at Morel’s feet. Back in the old days, the dragon prince had killed servants for far less, and Morel knew he’d escaped such a punishment purely because he was indispensable. He’d lain awake every night since, fretting over what he must have done wrong, questioning whether he could ever dare to use the Orb again, even if he had the means…
But what did it matter to Morel to lose a Flying City, if by it he gained safety in a world of his own making? A beautiful world where, with Archalthus crowned King, the Red Mage would be famous and revered by generations to come. Where, if things did not turn out so well, he knew every forest and mountain, every hiding place. The bottle of wine (one of the finest from the prince’s private collection, no doubt about it) helped the griffins’ case too. Should he tell Archalthus what he’d learned? Really? Morel had a certain fondness for the griffins. Scarlet had been a proud creature once, and it saddened him to see her cowed and afraid. Sable, on the other hand, was still the utter nuisance he’d always been: nosy and mischievous, finding trouble wherever he looked. Nevertheless, he was what Morel had made him. Part crow and part cat, what could you expect?
Morel drained the last of the wine. Run to Archalthus with the news? He couldn’t even summon the energy to rouse his weary bones from the seat beside the range. Sable had scavenged some eggs from somewhere: a dozen little eggs, and his sister boiled them to perfection. When she brought some extra cushions and a patchwork quilt, Morel soon found himself comfortable and dozing. Time passed erratically, with Scarlet retrieving and rewinding the scattered wool from around her kitchen, the patter of her footsteps occasionally breaking through the dark veil of Morel’s unconsciousness.
“Oh, hello, sweetheart!” the cheerful voice jerked Morel back from the depths. “Can I get you something? Another draught for your landsickness? How about some breakfast?”
Breakfast? Hours must have passed, but Morel couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes and face his work.
The newcomer confessed that he would like something to eat, if it was no trouble to Scarlet. Sounds flared in the darkness of Morel’s sleepy brain: chair legs scraping across the floor; the rising burble of water poured into a kettle; the scratch of a match being struck. Morel burrowed deeper into the soft nest of cushions and blankets that had accumulated around him while he slept, but curiosity got the better of him and he cracked open one eye to see who the newcomer was. At sight of the Argean, any lingering thought of sleep fled. Morel huddled deeper into his blankets, as if they could muffle the racing of his rabbity old heart, hide it from those sharp ears. The Argean sat upright at the table almost just like a man, clawed hands splayed on the table in front of him. He answered Scarlet’s inane babble politely, and when she put a plate of liver in front of him he began to eat it with all appearances of a civilised fellow with good table manners… But the creature’s ears gave him away, flicking around first one way then another, always listening for prey. His long white fangs showed every time he opened his mouth. Then the Argean’s ears flattened, and his eyes widened, his nostrils twitching. Morel heard the footsteps in the corridor, and –
“I told you I don’t know where he is!” shouted the Argean, jumping up from the table.
A lone dark-haired golem stood in the doorway, his heartlight pulsing steadily. “I have instructions to find my twin,” he said.
“I’m very sorry, Sir! I regret I cannot help you!”
“What’s going on here?” asked Scarlet, hands on hips and a frown on her face. “I don’t need none of you gentlemen ‘til the Master’s breakfast is ready. Why don’t you come back later?”
The golem ignored her and took a step – just one – towards the Argean. “You must hand over the mysterious box.”
“No!” The creature’s fur stood on end from head to tail. “Leave me in peace!”
Morel watched the standoff with queasy fascination: he’d fully expected the damaged golem to return to the wreckage of Ilgrevnia and start digging for his twin, in a task that might well take months if he was buried deep. So what was he doing here? What mysterious box? Morel noted that the lone golem spoke more clearly now, his heartlight pulsing stronger and steadier than before.
The golem took another step closer, but that was when Scarlet rushed in and interposed herself in the line of sight. “Why won’t you leave him be? Can’t you see he’s having his breakfast? What’s wrong with you?” She turned to Morel. “What’s wrong with him?”
Morel, realising that he’d been caught awake and watching, shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Only some slight impairment after the fall,” he said, and was pleased to notice Scarlet break eye contact at mention of the City’s fall.
“Well, can’t you fix him?” she said.
But the golem had seen an opening and made a lunge for his Argean foe, who dropped the mask of civilisation in a heartbeat, screaming like a cat and leaping onto the table. The golem followed, grabbing him by the tail, and got a clawed swipe across the face for such impertinence – blood welled up bright red, and the wounds which should have healed instantly did no such thing. Nevertheless the golem held on, making a wild grab with his other hand. With Scarlet shouting for them to stop it, the two combatants tumbled off the table, and a small wooden box flew out of the Argean’s coat pocket, bouncing across the kitchen floor.
“Stop!” Morel shouted. “Calm yourself and unhand that creature.”
Still bristling furiously, the Argean pulled his tail and his coat free of the golem’s reluctantly relaxed grip, then dived to retrieve his wooden box. Morel, still robed in many blankets, rose to examine the golem. The scratches were luckily shallow, still not healing, but something like quicksilver pulsed beneath the surface of the skin.
“Barbarian,” Morel grumbled, casting a dark look at the Argean, who was busy turning his precious box over and over as he examined it closely for any dents or scratches. The box radiated magic dimly, like a coal glowing with the faintest remaining heat. Enough for the Archmage’s curiosity to overcome his fear. He cleared his throat. “What’s that you have there, creature?” he asked.
The Argean shoved the box back into his coat pocket – you needed no familiarity with the Argean species in particular to recognise the guilt written all over his face. “A family heirloom,” he said hastily, “a last memento of my grandmother.” It might have been true, but it was no answer to the question.
“All right, lovey,” Scarlet interrupted briskly, “how’d you like some hot chocolate? Come on, sit back down and try to relax while I find my chocolate pot.” Gently, she guided the Argean back to his seat while he apologised profusely for his outburst and she would have none of it. “I’m sure I’d do the same if somebody grabbed my tail like that,” she assured him, giving first the golem and then Morel a fierce look. “Why don’t you take that thing away from my kitchen? It’s a menace to decent people. Can’t you keep it under control?”
“Never fear,” said Morel, shedding the many blankets, “I shall escort him away from your domain post haste, oh Queen of Kitchenland.” And he bowed sarcastically to her.
Scarlet pursed her lips. “There’s no need to mock,” she said. “But can’t you be more car
eful with your golems? Please?”
Morel escorted the golem across the threshold. “You:” he wagged a finger at the offending golem, who watched it mildly, calm as instructed to be, “you must never intrude upon the borders of this good lady’s domain again.” Better to keep the peace – Scarlet had been upset enough by their earlier conversation. He took the golem and left. As they walked the corridor, the bright flashing of the heartlight faltered and grew weaker; the rhythm of the golem’s footsteps fell out of time.
“Now,” said Morel to the golem, “What did you want with that box?”
When the golem spoke again, his voice was not as smooth as it had been in the kitchen. “You have instructed me to find my twin.” The faltering of his malfunctioning voice could easily have been mistaken for emotion.
“Well he’s not in that little box, is he?” said Morel, but even as the words came out of his mouth, they set him thinking. “Is he?”
The golem had no answer to that. Morel had sensed magic about the wooden box, certainly, but few magical artefacts from the old world would function as designed here, in this world’s magic. Not for long, anyway. And yet there had been power inside that box, perhaps far more than there was stored in the cellar full of stars, and Morel was tempted to turn around at once and return to Scarlet’s kitchen. He might find a way to use the power in that mysterious box to get the sun back on track. But the Argean clearly wouldn’t surrender it without a fight, and Morel already had one other enormous source of power to exploit, if he dared… Well, the Argean and his mysterious box, like the girl with the snow globe, wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon. Sending the faulty golem to wait in the workshop, Morel decided it was time for him to visit the visitors.
The White Queen was apparently in her private room and sleeping the morning away when Morel arrived at the parlour, but the Wintergard fellow was sitting by the fireplace.
“Ah, Archmage Morel: what an unexpected pleasure to see you.” He stood clumsily, and extended a hand.
Morel waved it away. “Sit down, you daft boy. You’re not well; anybody can see that.”
The knight all but collapsed in a heap, and just so happened to do so into the armchair. “I should feel better in an hour or two,” he said, with a jerk of one hand that might have been an attempt to indicate the window.
Morel nodded, guessing what he meant. “The sun. You know, small Devices tend to work well here. Larger ones… less so.”
“And my armour? Do you think it could be adapted?”
“I’d have to study it,” said Morel, truthfully. If only he had more time, he would be delighted to study such a unique Device. “We were able to salvage some of my books from the crash, some of them may shed some light on the subject… if you would be interested in reading them. I am rather busy, of course. Indispensable, in truth, although you wouldn’t know it by the way I’m treated, sometimes…”
Morel promised to do what he could to get the knight access to the palace’s library, or otherwise to bring some books to him. They talked of this and that, with the Archmage skirting around the topic of magical boxes, uncertain how to approach. It was natural for the conversation to meander over the broad topics of Devices, and of magical power, but Morel didn’t have the first clue what the Argean’s prize was, which made it difficult to bring up obliquely. He couldn’t even be confident that the knight knew anything about the box himself. After breakfast, the witch came in to sit by the fire with her knitting, clacking away in an irritating fashion, and while she made no attempt to join the conversation this time, she was quite obviously listening in. For all the good it would do her, the foolish woman.
“I must be on my way,” said Morel abruptly, once the witch with her clacking needles had grown from a background distraction to an unbearable irritant. “Important things to do… Must see Archalthus…” He launched himself from his seat, snapping his fingers impatiently at the golems waiting at the door. “Take out your pocket watch and tell Archalthus I must talk to him. Quickly, now, lest I summon the dragon directly. Must grasp the nettle,” he muttered on his way out, “or you’ll get stung, won’t you?”
13: MAGIC IN HIDDEN PLACES
The library should have been the one place Morel could run to when he needed calm and solitude, but that morning he went to it with dread crawling through his brain. It didn’t help that he had to be escorted there by Mister Breaker, as if he was either incapable of finding his way, or a naughty child who needed to be watched. And to make matters even worse, Archalthus had taken a liking to the library himself. Archalthus liked the satin sheen of the wooden shelves, floor to ceiling, with the highly polished brass plates denoting the taxonomy of the books. He liked the gold-stamped leather spines, collections of highly esteemed authors from all the ages of history, which appeared to march in rows down the room. He liked the luxury of the tall padded armchairs that he’d had imported to this world, where he could idle away an afternoon with a glass of wine and whatever book took his fancy. Morel had once seen the smile on the prince’s face as he took deep appreciative breaths of parchment, calfskin, leather bindings… but it was all kindling to Archalthus. Really, the dragon cared nothing for the contents of the books, the secrets and memories slivered between the dry pages, only loved the anticipation of how things could burn at his whim. Morel had seen Archalthus burn a library once before and shuddered at the thought. The dragon could one day burn his own library if he absolutely had to, even though Morel abhorred the destruction of knowledge, but what remained of the Archmage’s own collection must stay safe (water-stained and battered as many of the volumes inevitably were after the fall of Ilgrevnia). The Archmage made a note to himself: he would move his own books from the library, down to the relative safety of his rooms beneath the palace, just as soon as possible. Today.
They found Archalthus seated beside a window, contemplating the great spread of his domain and lamenting his flightlessness, no doubt. The expression on the prince’s face was pensive, but his posture was relaxed and his world was in good order… for now.
“Good morning, Archmage Morel,” Archalthus greeted him. “Do sit down.”
“Whoever’s killing my ornamental deer, don’t think I haven’t noticed,” said Morel, ensconcing himself in the seat opposite.
Archalthus raised an eyebrow. “Whose ornamental deer, did you say?”
Morel ignored him. “All that venison for dinner lately. Don’t think I didn’t notice that. I just didn’t like to say anything in front of the ladies.” Miss Hartwood had fallen in love with the palace’s ornamental snow deer at first sight, and if she’d had more brains than nature gave a goldfish, she would have realised that those same deer were the source of the venison on her plate, and she’d have been terribly upset.
Archalthus gave the pained smile that he so often employed in conversation with his Mage. ‘Is this all you wanted?’ he must be thinking. ‘Is this what you impinge on my time for?’ “I shall have the deer replaced at a later date. For the time being, there are more important matters to attend to.”
“Well, yes, not starving to death seems important, I suppose.”
“There are supplies to last us months, are there not?” said Archalthus. “It won’t come to starvation if you turn your talents to the task of fully restoring the Orb, Archmage.” Then he fixed Morel with his fierce golden eyes. “Instead of frittering away your time, and that of my other servants, in rearranging the trees. Yes, I am as astute as you – I watch all that goes on in my lands. And the Red Paladin was created to guard my bride-to-be from danger.”
“Ah, the spiders, of course…” Morel looked away, but could still feel the dragon’s eyes upon him. It would be the end of him if he turned the Red Paladin loose as Miss Hartwood’s bodyguard, only for it to fail her and allow her to come to harm. Or worse, for it to harm her itself… “It may need further modifications yet… Must test it fully in this environment. And then of course Miss Hartwood must be trained to give it orders in the correct way�
�” That would be a task in itself. “She must understand that it’s the unavoidable nature of a golem to do exactly what its master tells it, and not necessarily what its master meant to tell it. Did I ever tell you about the time –”
“Does the same apply to your griffins?”
Morel winced at being given ownership of the creatures. As far as he could tell, Archalthus believed the events of the fall of Ilgrevnia to have been a disaster along the lines of an earthquake or a flood (that had been Morel’s own panicked story when he’d still believed himself to be the one at fault somehow) but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that the prince had other suspicions. “Griffins are a class of their own,” said Morel. It was true, and something he wished he’d realised much earlier than he had. Badly trained griffins could be as headstrong, high-strung and dangerous as badly trained horses, with their greater intelligence only giving them a greater capacity for ingenious methods of causing trouble.
“If they can’t be brought under control, then they must be destroyed, and you may reuse the griffin stones in order to create them anew.”
“Oh, a simple matter,” said Morel peevishly, “no chance of further failure there.” He saw no sense in wasting his breath explaining the difficulties of that plan to Archalthus, who had obviously got hold of a paltry scrap of information and was intent on waving it around as if it was a bright banner of wisdom. Dragons burned with innate magical power, but so far all of them had proved hopeless with formal magic and spells. The worst part was that the prince might use his incomplete understanding of how griffins were made, to write the poor creatures’ death warrants. Morel would sooner turn them out into the wilds to fend for themselves than destroy them… He ought to try to take the prince’s mind off that topic, so what better time than now for his big confession? “Now look, old bean,” he said, leaning closer, speaking earnestly, “forget the griffins. There’s a problem with the sun.” He rushed on before he could think better of his honesty. “It’s running further out than I’d planned, getting further away from us by the day. Either I restore it to its proper path, or we must abandon this world before… well…”
