Yanalia began to weep in harsh strangled sobs, clinging to her husband. Lycaelon forced himself to keep his face smooth, his expression benign. Puling and weeping with hysteria already, and he hadn’t been in the house more than a few moments! How like a woman!
“We were afraid,” Ioan said slowly.
Lycaelon composed his features into an expression of hurt regret and bowed his head. “If that is the case … if that is truly the case … then I have failed you, failed all the people of Armethalieh. How can I help you, if you won’t come to me for help? Look at me, Ioan.” He spread his hands, a sad smile on his face. “I’m a Mage. That’s all I am. That’s all I do. I don’t plant crops, or spin cloth—or make gold out of thin air like you do, Ioan!” He allowed himself a rueful smile at the small joke, and was pleased to see Ioan smile in return. “All I do is help people. That’s all any Mage does. That’s all the Art Magickal is for. But when people won’t come to me for help, then, well … I’m useless. I can’t help you if I don’t know that you need help, and my Gifts go to waste.”
He lowered his head again, as if meeting their eyes was too much for him. Had he overplayed his hand, laid it on too thick? But no. They were distracted, afraid, and from the looks of things hadn’t been sleeping well at all. If he could get them feeling guilty as well, they should be supremely easy to manipulate.
“It weren’t—it wasn’t that.” Ioan had made his way up from the laboring classes and married a minor merchant’s daughter, taking her name, as was customary when marrying into a higher-ranked family. When he was upset, his low-class origins showed in his speech.
“We thought it would go away. It didn’t, but then we thought she’d get better!” Yanalia burst out, her voice still thick with tears. “But it’s only gotten worse, Arch-Mage. The fires, and the breaking things, well, at first we thought it might be a spirit or something, not her—we had a Light-Priest in to bless the house, and it stopped for a while, but then it started up again. Then I began thinking about old tales and when we realized it was her, not a spirit, we thought it would get better …” Her voice faltered, and for a moment Lycaelon thought she was finished speaking, but she composed herself with an effort and went on. “After all, don’t all Apprentices have trouble when they start learning magick?”
Only years of self-discipline and iron self-control kept Lycaelon’s features composed in a benign mask. He even managed to smile at the witless creature. “Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning,” he said smoothly. “Tell me everything. Leave nothing out.”
It was an old and not unfamiliar story, a mainstay of the romances so beloved of the lower classes. A child of humble parents—a merchant, a tavern-keeper, or perhaps even a farmer—begins to find bizarre things happening around him at the same time his body begins changing from child to adult. Things vanish, only to reappear in strange places. Stones rain down on his house. Plates, cups, and other small objects fly through the air around him as if thrown, though no one seems to have touched them. Mysterious voices are heard, music, odd sounds. Sometimes spontaneous fires start, or the boy sleepwalks, going into trances and speaking of things he has no way of knowing. And then, to provide the story with a happy ending, just as things seem darkest, a Mage comes, and recognizes the child’s power, and takes him away for training in the Art Magickal, elevating him into a world of privilege, duty, and entitlement.
These people had heard such stories a hundred times, and when the same things started happening in their home, and they eliminated the possibility that it was some spirit of mischief, doubtless had visions of the glory that having a Mage in the household would bring them.
But it is always a boy of whom the storytellers write and sing. Because there never has been, and never would be, a female Mage in the Golden City of Armethalieh.
“And you say there have been fires?” Lycaelon asked smoothly, when it became clear that the story Ioan and Yanalia had to tell was degenerating into a recital of a long series of boring incidents, and they had no more real details to give. Fires … well, that put the cap on it. If there were fires starting, it wouldn’t be long before what was happening inside these walls would migrate outside, endangering far more than a few trinkets, no matter how strong the Protection Spells on the surrounding buildings were.
“They started a day or two ago,” Ioan said, sighing heavily. “And now Deglas says the fountain has stopped running as well, and where will we get the water to put out the next one? Lord Arch-Mage, what can we do? Protective amulets just shatter. Beating the girl does no good—it only makes matters worse!”
“Broke all my best dishes after that,” Yanalia said, dabbing at her eyes. “Oh, not her—but they flew around the kitchen like bats for half a bell, all smashed to flinders, and the cook left and both the scullery-maids; I haven’t been able to keep a girl since! You must help us! Please! You must take her now!”
“Take her now.” The Light preserve us. The daft woman really does think we’ll take the wretched creature and make a Mage of her!
“Rest assured, Goodlady Tasoaire; your problems are at an end. You and your husband have done the right thing by coming to me.” He kept his voice soothing, although his own emotions could best be described as “seething” rather than “soothing.” “I will deal with this myself, here and now. Your Darcilla will never again be troubled by these strange and unwelcome visitations. I will see to it that her energies are redirected into some other activity that is more suited to her sex,” Lycaelon told her, though in truth, he wanted to grab the idiot creature by the brocaded shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled for being such a fool. “Obviously, since it is a girl-child involved, and not a boy, we will have to take action before she harms herself with this—unnatural power. Quite impossible for any girl to use such a thing, of course. Quite, quite impossible. Now, if you will send for the girl …”
“But why aren’t you going to take her and make her into a Mage?” Yanalia asked, taken aback. “I thought—the stories all say—she has such power …”
Lycaelon stared at her, too stunned for a moment to retain his mask of avuncular calm. Was it actually possible that despite what he had just told her, this cretinous female was going to insist that her daughter be taken in and trained by the Mages?
Clearly, she was not listening. And he was going to have to take a stronger stand. Much. In fact, he was going to have to be disagreeable with her. He got to his feet, frowning sternly. “My good woman, try not to be any more featherbrained than absolutely required by your female nature. Do think, will you? Have you ever seen a female Mage in this City?”
Yanalia cowered back, aware that she had somehow offended the Arch-Mage but not quite sure what she’d done.
“Well … no,” she admitted. “But I don’t see …”
“Precisely. You don’t see. Because, my good woman, you are not a Mage. But surely you have eyes.” He waved his hand around. “Look at the shambles she’s made of your house, and imagine what a disaster she could make of the City were she turned loose upon it. It’s the simple truth that women lack the emotional detachment necessary to master the High Magick; a truth that has been proven time and time again, and sometimes with tragic results. Their gifts lie elsewhere—in the arts, in business, in the home. She is as unhappy now as you would be, madame, should I ask you to strap on sword and armor and patrol the City walls. Bring her to me and I shall heal her of this inconvenient fever, and you will all be more comfortable for it.”
“She’ll be all right?” Ioan asked uncertainly.
Lycaelon smiled at Ioan, man-to-man, allowing a faint undercurrent of magic to speak to him, silently. Your wife, as you have always thought, is a fool. You and I know better than any mere female. You must be the master in your house. Put your foot down with her, put her in her place, and your world will become infinitely more comfortable and harmonious. “It will be as if this last moonturn never happened. She’ll be your own happy grateful child once more. Peace beneath your own
roof, Ioan, what more could any man ask for, eh?”
Ioan smiled, letting out a long sigh of relief. “Ah, that’s that, then. Go and fetch the girl, Yana.”
Yanalia Tasoaire still looked doubtful, but not quite uncertain enough to be willing to argue with her husband in front of the Arch-Mage of Armethalieh. She bobbed a hasty curtsy and left the room.
“She’ll be a while,” Iaon said, with the air of one who has had long experience with wives and daughters. Whatever he was like normally with his wife, he had drunk deeply of the spine-strengthener supplied by Lycaelon, and was acting accordingly. He stepped to the sideboard. “Care for a stiffener while you wait?”
“Ah … no. My Art prevents, you will understand.”
While it was partly true—no Adept of the Art Magickal partook of senses-clouding substances lightly, least of all when about to perform magic—it would have been a simple matter for Lycaelon to change the contents of the cup until it was no more potent than spring water. Refusing to drink with his host was all part of a certain mystique the Mages wove about themselves, a dance of etiquette designed to set them apart from the average citizens whom they governed. The people of the Golden City must never be allowed to forget that their servant-Masters were woven of finer cloth than they themselves were.
“But do go ahead,” Lycaelon said generously. “I imagine this has all been quite a strain for you and your good lady.”
Ioan laughed raggedly. “Like a wondertale come to life—and not one of Perulan’s, where you know all will end well!” He poured himself a full cup and drank, and Lycaelon smelled the rich scent of good brandy.
“I must admit, I was never convinced that Darcy was ever going to control this—”
“Inconvenient fever,” Lycaelon supplied smoothly.
“Cursed inconvenient. It just kept getting worse, not better. But my wife—” He coughed. “You know how women are. They get harebrained notions and nothing will shake them loose of it.”
Lycaelon judged it time to change the subject. “Tell me, Ioan, this Darcilla of yours, what are her interests? Will she be following you into the business?”
“Nay, not she—that’s for her older sister; Mora’s been mad for the counting-house ever since she could hold a string of tally-beads. No, for Darcilla it’s always been the music.” The man looked bemused. “Even before she could walk or talk, it was the music.”
Ah. Lycaelon felt a small spark of satisfaction. So the girl had some small spark of talent for music, did she? All to the good. It would make what he was about to do that much easier; music required some of the same abilities and talents as the Art Magickal, so redirecting the girl’s interests wouldn’t be as painful or difficult as it could have been.
“Conservatory isn’t cheap,” Ioan went on, “but what’s money for if not to spend, says I?”
“Indeed,” Lycaelon agreed smoothly. And you will have every opportunity to spend a great deal of your money on this daughter of yours. I shall see to that.
The door opened again and Yanalia entered with her daughter. Though barely out of childhood, Darcilla Tasoaire was already taller than her mother, with something of her father’s dark good looks. She was clean, though slatternly dressed; a worn pink house-tunic, several sizes too big for her, dragged, unbelted, on the floor, and her long dark hair hung lank and uncombed down her back. Darcilla’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes flashed dangerously; she and her mother had obviously been fighting over how she should appear before this important guest, and the lightnings of uncontrolled Mage-potential crackled around her like the warnings of a storm to Lycaelon’s finely attuned senses.
For a moment he felt a flash of pity for the young victim. Who knew what would happen if things were allowed to go on as they were? Powers such as the girl now possessed didn’t simply go away, and no mere female could possibly learn to control such subtle and powerful energies. She could only be led down the paths of madness and chaos, dragging the Light knew how many innocents in her wake. Curse her parents for letting this go on as long as they had out of foolish pride and misplaced pity! It only proved once again how unfit ordinary folk were to involve themselves in any dealings with High Magick.
And females. Most especially females.
“Now I must ask you to leave us alone together for a short time,” Lycaelon said, rising to his feet.
He saw Yanalia brace herself to argue, but Ioan was already moving toward her, detaching his wife from his daughter and moving her briskly through the open door. The door shut behind them, and the Arch-Mage was alone with Darcilla Tasoaire.
“You would do well to heed me,” Lycaelon said in a slow, deep resonant voice quite unlike the one he had used with her parents. The words themselves were unimportant; he actually had no interest in speaking with the girl. Speaking was only a way of catching her attention, to key the prepared cantrip that would place her into a trance so that he could do the work that must be done.
He saw the girl’s lashes flutter as she fell quickly into trance—those with the Gift were far more susceptible to it than those with no talent whatsoever, oddly enough—and he moved to catch her before she fell. Under his guidance, she walked over to the enormous gilded chair and seated herself docilely in it.
He took a moment to prepare himself, just as a surgeon does before making the first incision. Like a master surgeon, this was an operation the High Mage had performed hundreds of times, for not all of those born with the ability to learn the High Art, despite what the talespinners said, were suited to practice it, either for reasons of temperament or birth—or sex. For the good of the City, it was often the unpleasant duty of a Mage to protect both the Art and the people by removing the Gift from an ill-suited practitioner, as well as to perform other delicate operations on the mind. Armethalieh had no prisons. There was no need of them, in a city ruled by the Mages who wielded this most delicate and subtle of all the High Art’s Gifts.
With quick deftness Lycaelon entered the girl’s mind. To his Magesight, the parts of her brain that sensed and handled Mage-energy glowed brightly, as brightly as a diseased organ beneath a surgical spell. He drew upon his Talisman, focusing its stored Mage-energy upon each of those centers in turn, burning and destroying them until they were cold and dark.
It would not affect her normal functioning. No one but Mages used those parts of their brain, after all. With Magesight he watched carefully as their glow faded like the embers of a dying fire, vanishing away into darkness. And when all the glow was gone, there was nothing left but a perfectly ordinary girl, like hundreds of others throughout the City.
Now that part of his task was done, Darcilla could no longer sense, evoke, or work with any of the energies called magick.
But her memories of doing so remained, and to leave them in place would be to leave his task half-finished. The desires that had turned her toward magick in the first place were still there, and if they weren’t attached to some new interest, they would fester and lead to anger and discontent. She would be angry with her parents for turning her over to the Arch-Mage and “robbing” her of what she undoubtedly considered her “rightful” powers. She would be even angrier with the Arch-Mage, and it was truly said that there was no creature more dangerous than a woman bent on avenging a personal grudge; she was young, and she would have a long, long time to plan her revenge. He could not leave such a dangerous creature loose and unfettered—what if she decided that the way to repay the “wrong” was to ruin Anigrel or subvert Kellen?
He was here in the first place because her father was a powerful man, with a seat on the Trade Council. He could not allow an embittered child to jeopardize that delicate political balance, either. Let Ioan be grateful for this day’s work, and the City would run that much more smoothly … best for everyone if the girl was subtly molded into a shape more pleasing for all concerned.
Slowly, carefully, like riffling through the pages of a book, Lycaelon sought through Darcilla’s memories. Each time he found one attached t
o magick—even one so seemingly innocuous as listening to a song, attending a play, reading a book—he reached in and changed it, erasing some parts, changing others, connecting all of them with music. Slowly he rebuilt her personality, making only tiny individual changes, but attaching all her interests, her drive, her will, to music. She would, without a shadow of a doubt, become as great a musician as he had promised her father—she now had the dedication and the drive, as well as the talent. He’d made sure of that. And if she seemed a little obsessed with it for the next few moonturns, well, that would pass as the spell settled into place, and what silly young girl wasn’t obsessed with something or other at this age? Her parents should thank him for ensuring that she wouldn’t be climbing out of her window every night to keep a rendezvous with some pimply young laborer intent upon marrying into wealth, just as her father had! No indeed, if—no, when, for Lycaelon would see to it that an invitation to audition came from the Conservatory by the next Sennday—she entered the Conservatory as a student, that single-minded obsession alone would guarantee her success. In the practice of music, like the practice of magick, success went to the single-minded, those who devoted the most time to practice.
He had done her the greatest favor possible. She might have become just one more featherwitted girl of wealth, unfocused, bored, and restless, with no other prospects than marriage. Now she would become a rising star in the Conservatory, and eventually a great artist. Eventually, she would be as great, in her own sphere, as any Mage. She would certainly have more public acclaim.
His task complete, Lycaelon withdrew from her mind, and sent her from a trance into a deep sleep. She’d awaken in a day or so unable to remember her part in any of what had happened, feeling that she was just as she had always been, her memories an unbroken line from her earliest days till now. The Tasoaires would engage a new flock of servants who had not been around during the recent unpleasantness, and all would be well.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 6
