The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  At least Idalia now knew why Dyren Lalkmair was still alive. Anigrel hadn’t bothered to kill him because the man never took his nose out of a book long enough to notice what was going on around him.

  “Sit down, Lord Lalkmair,” Volpiril said. “We must know all you know of Wildmagery, and how our Art began.”

  Lord Lalkmair seated himself, with some hesitation, at the ebony table. “If you wish to know such things, Lord Volpiril, why not ask the Elf? Or the Wildmage? By the Light, either of them know more than I—and do not risk Banishment for speaking of them!”

  There was a faint chuckle from a few of the High Mages seated around the table.

  “We don’t really have time for this,” Idalia said. “Though we do need Lord Lalkmair’s help. As Jermayan has said, They intend to sacrifice Lord Lycaelon at the Delfier Land-Shrine tonight at midnight. We must stop Them—by taking Their sacrifice from Them before They can use it.”

  Volpiril frowned. “You cannot mean us to fight our way to the Shrine?”

  Idalia shook her head. “If the entire Allied Army can’t do it, Lord Volpiril, you certainly can’t. I’m talking about magick. Pure High Magick. With some Wild Magic mixed in.”

  Lalkmair looked interested at last. “Certainly we have enough of Lord Lycaelon’s personal items to create a Bond of Sympathy. The difficulty would be in raising enough Power to penetrate the Darkmage spells that will already have been cast. But adding the Forbidden Magic as well … that might very well disrupt the Etheric Currents to such an extent to allow a spell of lesser force to slip through the interstices in the Darkmage Working. It will still require an enormous amount of Power, but I believe it can be done. An adaptation, in a way, of an Apportation Spell—oh, I know, Lord Volpiril, that such an adaptation requires months of review by the appropriate committee, but …”

  “Just this once, Lord Lalkmair, we will bypass the review,” Lord Volpiril said, with a long-suffering sigh. “Please determine precisely what items you will need for this spell, and what Mages you will require for the Circle, and assemble them here.”

  “I’ll help him,” Idalia said firmly. She was very much afraid that if Lord Lalkmair went wandering off, he’d become caught up in some obscure byway of research and forget to come back at all.

  “Oh, please,” said Lord Lorins ironically. “Do feel free to treat this City as your own.”

  “We shall,” Jermayan said, getting to his feet and placing a hand on his sword. “Since we are saving it for you.”

  “And while we’re gone,” Idalia said, “it might be a nice idea to see if you can round up any of your precious Mages who might actually be willing to poke their noses outside the walls and fight for it, instead of leaving Kellen and your so-called ‘Lesser Races’ to do all the work.”

  CILARNEN had never thought—even before his Banishment—that he would ever be standing here, in the Grand Circle of the Council House, preparing to cast the most important and most sacred spell of the City.

  Seventeen others stood with him, all men far older and—he would once have thought—wiser than he. All of them were of the highest rank of Mage-hood, High Mages all.

  The last rank Cilarnen had formally attained was that of Entered Apprentice.

  Yet he would be leading the ritual. He had claimed that right, and no one had argued.

  It should have been Lord Kerwin’s position—of all the Mages gathered here, Lord Kerwin of House Festalen was the most senior Mage. Yet when Cilarnen had claimed the position of Keystone, Lord Kerwin had not said a word.

  If Lord Kerwin had not been thoroughly cowed by Cilarnen’s father, he was doing a good imitation.

  Of course, the fact that the Council House was only a few yards from the Delfier Gate, and that—in the absence of the wards—the sounds of the battle outside the walls were clearly audible inside the Council House might well have had something to do with it. Cilarnen had been in a few skirmishes, though not in a battle on this scale. And he’d seen more death and destruction than he really wanted to, through the Glyph of Far-Seeing. But for people like Lord Kerwin, the sounds he was hearing now were entirely new, and it was obvious that the venerable High Mage didn’t care for what he was hearing at all.

  Proper Mage-robes had been brought for Cilarnen to dress himself in—they lacked the tabard that showed his house colors, rank, and magickal honors, but they would do—and the Master Spellbook had been brought from the Council Archives, so he could read over a spell he had never expected to see, let alone cast.

  It was long and complicated.

  But he was a quick study. He’d had to learn to be.

  And it wasn’t as if he was going to be the only one casting this spell for the first time. Of the seventeen of them gathered here in the Council Chamber, only Lord Kerwin had ever participated in the Casting of the Wards before, and that only as a Journeyman, assisting the Mages. Until Anigrel had come to the Council, the High Council itself had re-cast the Wards each moonturn. Now, they dared not trust the work to any of those whom Anigrel had chosen to take their places.

  There would be thirteen of them doing the actual Casting. The other five—High Mages all—would prompt them through the ritual, doing the work of Journeymen to keep the braziers stoked, and, if disaster struck and someone could not go on, hope to take his place in the Casting before the ritual unwound itself.

  “You wear no City Talisman, Lord Cilarnen,” Lord Kerwin said.

  “No. I do not need one.”

  It was why he was taking the key position in the ritual, bearing the Great Sword of the City. With the Elemental Energy at his command—he hoped—the Casting would go faster. The wards would be stronger than before.

  They needed to be.

  “How is that possible?” Lord Kerwin asked. He did not seem angry, only puzzled.

  And more than a little terrified by the sounds coming from outside.

  Cilarnen only wished he could be there as well as here. He was needed in the battle. His spells could make a difference. But there were many battles to fight. This was another. Perhaps, when the City Wards were up again, he could go out and join them.

  “Once, long ago, the High Mages drew their power, not from the people, but from an alliance with those whom you now call Illusory Creatures: the Great Elementals. I have made this pact again—one that I look forward to ending. But not yet. Come. We have much to do.”

  IT had been hard enough to persuade them to work in daylight. Harder still to convince them that the spell could be done outside of the proper ritual Hour. But Cilarnen’s studies had convinced him that it could. It was easier to do it at the proper time, of course. And of course the most subtle and delicate spells were impossible to do outside of the proper ritual Hours. But the spell for the City Wards had been cast and overlaid so many times over the centuries that it must be burned into the stones of the City by now. It would be harder to do during the day, in the middle of a battle, at the wrong Hour, but it could be done.

  All it would require was more Power.

  He could provide that.

  If it doesn’t kill me.

  When he had been Student-Apprentice, in his first years at the College, Cilarnen and the other boys had terrorized themselves deliciously with tales of spells that required a life to feed the casting. Such things were unknown in the High Magick, of course, though occasionally, as he had found out later, accidents did occur in ritual, when a spell went awry.

  It was a different thing than the Wild Magic, when a Wildmage might be asked to offer up his or her life as the Price of the spell.

  But the two forms of magic had, so Cilarnen now believed, once been one.

  And if that Old Magic now asked for his life in exchange for the restoration of the true and proper wards to Armethalieh’s walls, well, he was willing to give it. It didn’t matter if the people were ungrateful, or had no idea what he was doing. You didn’t do the right thing because people thanked you for it. You did it because it was right.

  He
stepped to his place in the Great Circle. Kerwin handed him the Sword of the City.

  The other twelve High Mages took their places on the working keys.

  “We will need Mage-Shield cast around the Council Chamber before we begin, because the Wards are down,” he said. “Lords Henius, Vacion, if you would?”

  A violet shimmer wrapped itself around the walls and ceiling, dimming the light.

  Chadure and Segnant placed the first measures of incense upon the braziers, working their way sunwise around the room, until all eight braziers were wreathed in smoke. They stepped back to the walls.

  Cilarnen raised his sword and drew the first Sign upon the air.

  The twelve Mages surrounding him mirrored his actions with their wands.

  It was begun.

  KELLEN thinks I cannot handle a sword.

  The thought came to him briefly, randomly, as he paused for a moment, panting for breath.

  The room was so filled with smoke he could barely see.

  The Sword of the City … glowed.

  His robe was plastered to his body with sweat. The room was like a furnace. There was nothing to be done about it. The High Magick was an art of self-control and privation. Mages were trained to endure hardships that would destroy lesser men.

  He moved quickly to the next figure.

  Astrelus had collapsed. Chadure had taken his place.

  They had been working for—he estimated—a Bell. The full ritual took three Bells as the High Mages worked it. Time for the Power to rise and settle. But with the Elemental Energy at his command, Cilarnen did not need to wait, nor would he. The army outside their gates did not have Bells—or hours, as the Elves reckoned time. The Wards must be restored as quickly as possible.

  And somehow, the Wards themselves were helping.

  The High Magick was an inert machine, a thing. He had always been taught that. It had no life beyond what a High Mage gave to it—certainly no consciousness, no will. Yet when Cilarnen had begun the ritual, drawn the first Glyph, he had sensed … something … rousing itself to meet his own intent. Something of the Light.

  No High Mage would have accepted that touch. But Cilarnen had learned much in his travels outside the City. He had bonded with Elementals, wild and tame. And so he had reached out eagerly to that slumbering life he sensed, trying to draw it toward consciousness, feeding it not only the scripted power of the spell, but the raw Elemental force that he carried within his own body.

  Slowly, it began to wake.

  The Wards of the City were complex, formed of layers of intention. To protect, to guard, to make of the walls and the very air above Armethalieh a defense against anything that was not, ultimately, of the Light. To do this they must be filled with an ultimate understanding of the Light, its nature and its purpose, laid down from the very beginning of the City. An ability to see into the very souls of any creature who might presume to pass through the Gates, to breech the City’s walls by any means.

  To know …

  To see …

  To understand …

  The air was thick, as if he moved so fast it could not part before him. The sword flashed each time he moved it, so brightly that he could not see the shapes of the glyphs he drew in the air. When he had begun, it had been heavy. Now it seemed to move of itself, drawing him with it.

  His heart pounded in his chest.

  His hair was plastered to his scalp. Sweat rolled down his face, into his eyes, blinding him. But he no longer needed to see.

  Five glyphs left. The most important ones.

  The Seals of the Four Quarters. And the Binding Seal.

  First, to the north. He stumbled as the sword seemed to haul him in that direction, but righted himself in time. He could not fail now. No one else could take his part.

  Down. The tip of the sword rang from the floor. Up. Around. The complicated tracery of the North Gate, glowing in every shade of blue that there was.

  Finished. Sealed.

  He swept the blade sideways.

  East. The blade rang against marble.

  The Seal glowed in every shade of gold, from deep amber to palest yellow. Sealed.

  South. Down. Up. Heartsblood scarlet, violet, palest pink, ruby. The sword shook in his hands. He clutched the hilt tighter.

  All my will, all my strength, everything I am, I give to this Working …

  Done. Finished. Sealed.

  West. A green so dark it was nearly black, the pale green of new leaves, the dusty green of the ocean, the bright green of new grass. All the shades of green that the Demons would take from the world if They won.

  Finished. Sealed.

  He swept the sword back through the North Gate, linking them all.

  The four Seals burned in the air.

  Now the Great Seal to link them all and set the spell. Without it, all that had come before was useless. He stepped back to his first position.

  He was cold.

  He raised the sword in salute. Suddenly it was a dragging weight in his hands, where moments before it had been light. He could barely lift it.

  He gritted his teeth, and flung it up into the first line of the Great Seal.

  Blinding white light followed the tip of the sword, cascaded back down the length of the blade, over his hands. It should have been hot, but it was cold, cold, it seemed to be draining all his strength.

  He would finish this. He must.

  The Great Seal was the most complicated of all. He worked quickly, desperately, forcing the sword through the complicated arcs. Smaller and smaller, and each loop and whorl must be exact, just as Master Tocsel had taught him.

  He was hot. He was cold. He could not tell which. The smooth marble floor beneath his feet had become a thousand knives, and his sweat had turned to blood. He could taste it. Each beat of his heart was slower.

  One … more …

  He raised the Sword of the City in the final salute.

  All five Seals vanished.

  The spell was cast.

  He … felt … the Wards reform. He felt the City awaken, the spell that rendered it, in some sense, a living thing remade at last. Felt it reach out, eagerly, for the power he had promised it, the power it needed to do its work.

  And then Cilarnen Volpiril knew nothing more.

  THE fighting had been going on for hours. The sun was setting. The Allies were holding their own, though their losses had been heavy. It was a consolation that the Enemy’s losses seemed to match theirs.

  No more Deathwings prowled the sky, and they hadn’t seen either a Coldwarg or a Shadewalker in hours. The Frost Giants had tried a flanking attack, but had been stopped by Belepheriel’s Knights. The Elven Commander had fought them all the way to the water’s edge; many of Belepherial’s command would have their names entered in the Great Book at the House of Sword and Shield for their work this day. But Belepheriel still lived, and the Frost Giants had been stopped.

  And the High Mages of Armethalieh had joined the fight.

  Not many. Kellen didn’t think the City had many to spare. But the Lesser Gate had opened, and ten young men in gray robes with ill-fitting breastplates over them had come riding out toward the army.

  They’d looked terrified.

  Dionan had brought them to Kellen.

  “I—You—You’re Kellen Tavadon,” their leader said.

  “Yes. You?”

  “Geont Pentres. Of House Pentres. I—”

  “Do you know any spells?”

  Pentres looked affronted. “Of course I do! I am a Journeyman Mage!”

  “Will you work with Wildmages?”

  From the look on his face, Kellen might have been asking him if he’d work with Demons, but he nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. We all will. That’s why we came.”

  “Good. Dionan. Find the Wildmages and take these to them. Tell them we have High Mages now and have them tell them what to do.”

  VOLPIRIL had said there were riots going on in the City, but Idalia saw no sign of them as she
and Jermayan followed Lord Lalkmair back to his house. The Mage Quarter looked very much as she remembered it from her girlhood; a series of nearly-identical imposing (pretentious) mansions set widely apart. Except for a few servants here and there, the streets were deserted.

  It might have been any ordinary day in Armethalieh.

  “They seem to be exceptionally calm,” Jermayan commented.

  “Exceptionally stupid,” Idalia said waspishly. “Until one of Them is actually here in person, I doubt most of them will either know—or care—what is going on outside the walls.” She sighed bitterly.

  “Yet Lord Volpiril seems to be … helpful,” Jermayan said cautiously.

  “That’s a little odd, I’ll admit. I think partly he’s out for revenge on the rest of the Council—and Lycaelon—for what they did to him. Not that I’m complaining, since it works to our advantage right now. But the moment we don’t have a common enemy, we’d better watch our backs.”

  “May that day come swiftly,” Jermayan said.

  “Yes,” Idalia agreed, realizing what she’d said. “I hope, for all our sakes, that it does.”

  It was about half an hour’s walk—two chimes, by City reckoning—to Lord Lalkmair’s mansion, and Idalia supposed they were being watched from every house they passed. But the City Watch didn’t come into the Mage Quarter unless it was specifically summoned, nor did the Militia, and today both bodies had plenty to occupy them elsewhere.

  The Magewardens might have been a problem: From what Idalia knew of them, they went everywhere and did pretty much as they pleased. But they were unlikely to ignore a summons from the Arch-Mage himself, and Volpiril had taken the precaution of ordering all the Magewardens brought to the Council House, by a decree sent out over Lycaelon’s personal seal. She didn’t know how many of them there were, but six High Mages ought to be able to keep them in line, and she knew from her own youthful experience that there were prison cells beneath the Council House. They might all be there already.

  If so, good.