“I find some things simple, other things hard,” Kellen said. “I think perhaps everyone does.”
“‘beware he who finds all things simple, for that one will make all things difficult,’” Adaerion quoted. “Yes. Perhaps you are right to think so. Now. There is much to do before we set out upon the war-road again. I think you will find this journey very different than the first.”
“Different,” Kellen was to find, was the greatest understatement he’d heard yet from any of the Elves.
THE High Mage Anigrel Tavadon—Lycaelon had said his elevation in rank was only a matter of time, and so it had been: a very short time—was a very busy—and very contented—man. His days were full, and his master—and more important, his Mistress—were both more than pleased with him.
As the head of both the Magewardens and the Commons Wardens, he now knew everything that took place in Armethalieh, from the sullen grumblings in the lowest dockside tavern to the rash speculations of the Entered Apprentices who drank at the Golden Bells. Finding Commons who would inform upon their fellows—from nobles in need of ready money to pay gambling debts, to merchants hoping their warehouse fees. could be eased, to laborers who would tell what they knew for a bottle of brandy and a bag of coppers—had been child’s play, and Anigrel’s spells ensured that all of his informants were entirely trustworthy.
Finding Mageborn who would act “for the good of the City” had also been easier than he’d expected. Fear had done his recruiting for him—some had come to him anxious to prove that they were not involved in his imaginary conspiracy. Others were equally anxious to align themselves—after the Banishings and resignations—with the new power in the City.
All were useful.
For Anigrel not only collected information, he dispensed it. Rumors were the weapons in his arsenal, and he deployed them with the skill of a master strategist.
Now the Mageborn remembered—no one was quite sure who first spoke of it—that the Lady Alance, Lord Lycaelon’s wife, had been Mountainborn. And that the two children—yes, two—that she’d borne to the Arch-Mage had both been Banished for practicing the Wild Magic. Everyone knew that the Mountainfolk were overrun with Wildmages—undoubtedly Alance had insinuated herself into the City in an early attempt to destroy it through Wildmagery, and had passed the heretical taint down to her children. Praise the Light the Arch-Mage had been spared.
But it only proved how deep the plots against the City ran.
And that even humans would ally themselves with the treacherous Otherfolk—and worse. The inhabitants of the Golden City could trust no one but themselves.
And did not the Elves consort with Wildmages as well?
Had not, in fact, the recently arrested sons of the deposed Council members been attempting to learn Wild Magic, possibly with Elven help?
Elves had been seen in the Delfier Valley near the time of the arrests. Undoubtedly coming to the aid of their confederates. Praise the Light they had been stopped.
Soon this tissue of lies and half-truths was common “knowledge” among the Mageborn. They accepted it without question. Why should they not? It fed their pride—and their deepest fears.
Among the Commons, the rumors were simpler.
The Wildmages had caused all the recent trouble in the City, because Wildmages hated cities, and destroyed them wherever they could.
They meant to destroy Armethalieh.
They could hide undetected among ordinary folk, but would always reveal themselves because they did not follow the precepts of the Light, and so did not believe in the wisdom and goodness of the High Mages.
Everyone knew that to become a Wildmage, a blood sacrifice was needed. Since Wildmages were corrupted young, they usually murdered their parents. The Archmage had discovered the horrible truth about his son when Kellen Tavadon had gone mad and tried to kill him. Only the glory and wisdom of the Light had protected the Arch-Mage, and allowed him to survive to destroy the monster in human form that his son had become.
Slowly, the City became a place of fear. In the Low City, brawls and riots increased as the fearful Commons turned on one another. The riots were, of course, the work of the Wildmages.
To protect against them, spells and protective Talismans were needed—and now the costs of such things were higher than ever before.
Each sennight Anigrel came to the Council, bringing reports of the rumors he had gathered—rumors he himself had started, now distorted out of all recognition. And the Council acted upon his reports.
The Watch was increased in numbers, patrolling the streets constantly. New and tighter curfews were introduced for the commons—now everyone in the City must be able to present a Talisman glyphed with their residence and their occupation upon demand. The City was divided into districts, and a permit was required from the newly appointed District Magistrates—all of whom reported to Anigrel—to travel outside of one’s home district. And in their fear, the Commons and Mageborn alike not only tolerated these changes, but welcomed them and clamored for more, all in the name of “safety” and “protection.”
Anigrel found it all immensely gratifying. The City was growing more and more terrified and disaffected, and blamed one cause: the Wildmages.
The Commons had never heard of the Endarkened—the Mageborn had made certain of that. And the true history of the City—of the banishing of the Wildmages, of the creation of a magick wholly under human control—was a secret shared by only the highest ranks of the Mageborn.
Soon Anigrel would be ready to proceed with the next step of his plan. All he must do now was tighten his grip upon the Mageborn even further—persuade them that their enemy was not the Endarkened, had never been the Endarkened.
That it was—had always been—the Wildmages.
And that only the Endarkened could save them.
ONCE more the moon waned to darkness. Once more Anigrel retreated to his private rooms within the Mage Courts, bearing with him a small black bag, such as Mages used to transport the smaller Tools of their Art. By now he had rooms in a dozen quarters in the City, where he was known by a score of names, but for his Communion with his Dark Lady, only this place would do.
Here, Anigrel met with some of his Magewardens, and kept an ever-growing collection of documents and information on his brethren.
There was High Mage Corellius, with his low taste for beer—and his Tradesman father. Over the years, Corellius had developed a number of interesting appetites that would prove quite embarrassing to him were they exposed to public scrutiny. Possibly even fatal, in the current climate of opinion.
And Mage Nadar Arbathil, whose son Perulan had needed to be dealt with so thoroughly. In his youth Perulan had engaged in quite a correspondence with folk across the sea. Who was to say that Lord Arbathil had not assisted him in doing so? Such a man might easily deal with Wildmages as well.
There were more—many more. Some in positions of power, some the sons of powerful men. All … malleable.
And two who were not.
With Anigrel’s appointment, the Mage Council’s number remained at eleven. There were two seats vacant, and so far Lycaelon had blocked every attempt to fill them.
Anigrel intended to winnow the Council further.
Vilmos would be easy to remove. The man was halfsenile and tottering toward reunion with the Eternal Light. A little gentle pressure from Lycaelon would gain his resignation—for health reasons, of course.
And if Vilmos would not see reason, it would be a simple matter some night, when he and Anigrel stood together in the Circle, to see that some Great Working went just wrong enough to cripple the old dodderer, or perhaps even kill him. Vilmos had been excused from the Circle lately on account of his age, but it would be easy enough to goad him into returning.
Perhaps that would even be for the best. There had been too many resignations from the Council recently. A death in service would be more fitting—and uplifting to the Commons.
Arance and Perizel were another matte
r. Both men were in their prime—both stood in the way of Anigrel’s plans—and neither was susceptible to pressure—on themselves, or their sons.
A man who had begun his rise to power by murdering his own father—as Anigrel had—certainly did not blink at a little more blood on his hands. But the High Mages were well guarded—and difficult to kill.
But at the moment, a more pleasant task awaited him.
From its small casket, Anigrel removed the iron bowl, and set it on the desk that now occupied the center of what had once been his sitting room. Now that there were visitors to his rooms, the casket shimmered with Spells of Warding, and would open only to his touch. But that in itself attracted no attention—the High Mage Anigrel Tavadon was known to have many secrets, all of which he kept for the good of the City.
From the pencase at his belt he took the knife he would use, and set it beside the bowl.
Now he opened the bag and lifted out a large grey cat.
No doubt it had been some Mageborn miss’s pampered pet, but Anigrel had seen it walking along the top of a garden wall, and the opportunity had been too good to pass up. It had been the work of an instant to enchant the creature into Sleep and tuck it into his bag. No one had seen him.
Now, before the animal could rouse fully into wakefulness again, he lifted the cat over the iron bowl and slit its throat with a quick deft motion. Blood spurted into the bowl with a ringing sound, filling it to the brim—cats held so much more blood than the pigeons he had been forced to employ for so many years.
And a child … a child would be even better. But he must be careful. His dominion over the City was not yet complete.
A mist of power formed over the steaming surface of the blood. Anigrel leaned forward, dropping the lifeless body of the cat carelessly and opening his mind to his Dark Lady, as he had each Dark Moon for almost his entire life.
“What do you have to tell me, my slave, my love?”
Her darkness filled his mind and his soul, completing him in a way that nothing else ever had and ever could. From the moment he had first seen her reflection in a mirror in his father’s house when he had been a child of eight, he had been hers utterly. She had been his first and best teacher. He would do anything to be with her always.
Quickly he told her everything.
“And soon they will be yours entirely, Mistress,” Anigrel said humbly.
“Yet something troubles you, my pet. I sense it.”
“Two inconvenient Mages. They must be removed.”
He felt the rich glow of his Dark Lady’s amusement.
“Umbrastone is what you need, my jewel, my slave. It will poison a Mage-man and send him to his bed Mixed with another poison, it will render that poison undetectable by magic.”
Anigrel felt a thrill of delight. Two members of the High Council poisoned in their beds! With only a little care, he could make it look as if their own families were responsible …
“Now that I have done something for you, you must do something for me. It is so hard for me to come to you, sweet Anigrel. You must change the Wards that bind the City. You have the power now …”
“Yesss …” Only let him remove three more members of the Council, and it would be a simple enough matter to suggest that the Mage Council was now stretched too thin for its members to stand in the Circle for every Great Working. To suggest that maintaining the City-Wards be turned over to a specific trusted body of Mages who performed no other task.
Anigrel would select them. Anigrel would lead them.
And Anigrel would corrupt them thoroughly.
“It can be done. I will need a little time. But it can be done. I swear it shall be done.”
He felt his Dark Lady’s delight flood through him, filling his body with black heat. Anigrel’s body shuddered in ecstasy, the intolerable pleasure building until he collapsed to the floor, insensible.
IT was just as well, Savilla reflected, once the connection was broken, to occasionally reward one’s slaves. It made the eventual betrayal so much sweeter.
And she looked forward with longing to the day when she could bring her sweet Anigrel here, to the World Without Sun, and teach him what it truly meant to love the Queen of the Endarkened.
It was nearly a quarter of a century—as the Lightworlders counted time—since she had made her first move in the war. She had acted in secret, for she knew the work would cost her dearly, and in her weakened state, any of her nobles might have challenged her.
She had withdrawn to a secret place, deep within the World Without Sun, and there she had worked tirelessly, destroying hundreds of captives gathered in secret—and all of her own folk who knew of her plan.
And then she had struck at Armethalieh.
Even with all her gathered power, she had barely been able to slip through the wards the City wrapped about itself. But her effort had borne fruit.
She had touched a child’s mind.
Receptive, eager, willing to learn all she had to teach … Chired Anigrel—now Anigrel Tavadon—had provided the crack in the City’s defenses that would soon bring them utter dominion over their loathed enemy. He had become hers utterly, growing in Darkness and strength through the years, moving ever closer to the City’s heart of power.
It was not a true breech of the City’s wards. As yet, it was only a way for her to communicate unnoticed with her most devoted slave, willing to work toward any task she set.
And now …
Victory was near.
She could taste it.
Just as she would taste the blood and flesh of her sweet slave, when he was no longer useful to her.
THE Centaur party continued to travel toward the Elven Lands. After the first few days, Cilarnen’s aches and pains subsided, though riding a draft mare was just as uncomfortable as he’d thought it would be.
In every spare moment, he practiced with his new wand. The need to practice burned in him; he had his Gift back, and being able to use it again felt better than anything he could have imagined. It was as if he’d had a hand cut off, learned to live imperfectly without it, and then suddenly hand it regrow before his eyes. He was only an Entered Apprentice, but he had been studying so hard to try to impress his father that he already knew many of the more complex spells that kept the City running—spells to purify water, spells to bind and unbind, spells to banish vermin, spells to calm animals and send a non-Mage to sleep, dozens more.
But though he built the glyphs that summoned his spells until his eyes ached and his body trembled with weariness, he was careful to leave them incomplete. There was no need for them here, after all, and he really wasn’t sure what would happen if he completed them. For some of the spells, he lacked some of the needed components. For others … well, the more powerful the spell, the more necessary he had been taught that it was to work it within a warded Circle. All his teachers had said that over and over from the first day he’d entered the gates of the Mage-College. Cilarnen wasn’t really sure what would happen if he did them out here. Summoning Fire was one thing—and Mageshield could be done anywhere. But the others …
He didn’t know. And there was no one to ask.
Seeing his difficulties with the High Magick, Wirance and Kardus had offered to try to teach him their heretical sorcery. Cilarnen had accepted with very little reluctance. He was cast out by the Light already, so it didn’t really matter to him one way or the other, and Kardus was the closest thing to a friend Cilarnen had among the Centaurs, though he felt an odd aversion to Wirance … not a dislike, precisely, but more as if Wirance simply wasn’t someone he should be around.
“THESE are the Books of the Wild Magic,” Kardus said, placing three worn volumes into Cilarnen’s hands one night as they gathered around the fire. “All the wisdom of the Herdsman’s path is written in their pages. Perhaps you will learn what you seek herein.”
Cilarnen accepted them gingerly. There was a certain illicit thrill in handling them.
Cilarnen opened the first of the t
hree books. The leather was stiff and slippery in his hands, the covers oddly hard to open.
“There’s nothing here,” he said in surprise.
“Say you so?” Kardus said, frowning. “Look deeper.”
“At what?” Cilarnen demanded irritably. “There’s nothing to see. The pages are blank.” He handed the three books quickly back to Kardus, who looked down at the first book thoughtfully, shaking his head in puzzlement.
“Try mine.” Wirance, who had been standing a few feet away, stepped closer, holding out a single slim volume.
Cilarnen took it reluctantly. It was one thing to tell himself he was willing to investigate other kinds of magic. It was another to have his nose rubbed in the reality of it. Kardus could obviously read what was written on the pages of his three Books perfectly well, but to Cilarnen, those same pages were blank.
Unlike the Books of the Centaur Wildmage, Wirance’s Book seemed to burn in Cilarnen’s hands, writhing under his fingers as if it wished to escape. It gave him the same feeling he had around Wirance, only magnified a hundredfold.
He gritted his teeth and pried the book open.
It was blank.
He let the covers snap shut with a sigh of relief. When he relaxed his grip, it was as if the book flew from his hands and back to Wirance’s.
“Nothing,” Cilarnen said. “It was blank, too.”
“Well, we know that whatever you are, you’re not a Wildmage—nor meant to be one, it seems,” Wirance said thoughtfully.
“I am a Mage of Armethalieh,” Cilarnen said. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. Half-trained—maybe never better-trained than this—and lacking most of his tools, but still a Mage of the Golden City.
And he would save her if he could.
“A great pity we do not know more about what that means,” Wirance said, slipping his Book back into his pack. “Perhaps the Elves will be able to help.”
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 130
