Those that had fallen in the forest, Ally and Enemy alike, were already covered by the carpet of living green. They left those alone.
But that left many more.
The Elves had simply refused to burn their dead. They were carried deep into the forest and laid, naked, upon the carpet of thick green life that had grown up there. Wagon upon wagon, piled high with bodies, made their slow journey into the woodland—by now nearly every tree was wreathed in green, and some were even sprouting new leaves—to return, empty, and be filled again. Even the Healers had returned from within the City to lend their aid.
The Great Gates stood open now.
Kellen stood at the head of one of the oxen, dragging a dead horse from the field. It was heavy work; the churned ground was still muddy, and the beast might be sure-footed, but he tended to slip. Still, the work had to be done.
And it kept him from thinking.
Armethaliehans moved across the battlefield as well, performing the lighter, simpler tasks of retrieving swords, weapons, and gear and bringing it to the camp. It, too, must be sorted, so that nothing Tainted would be saved to cause further potential harm.
Redhelwar had said, when Kellen had seen him earlier, that the Armethaliehans were helping as much as they could. They had sent food to the army, and were allowing them to enter the City—though not to go outside the area close to Delfier Square, the Council House, and the Mage College, where their wounded still recuperated. It was honestly more than Kellen had expected of them. One did not overthrow a thousand years of indoctrination and prejudice in a single night, even if it were a night unlike any that had come to Armethalieh in a thousand years.
Still, the sooner the army could leave here, the better Kellen would like it. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t trust the High Mages … well, to be fair, he didn’t. He was just wondering when—or if—they were going to realize that all they had to do to create that perfect world they’d dreamed of, without “Lesser Races” in it, was to turn on the remains of the Allied Army as it sat beneath their walls. Because right now, there was very little the Allies could do about the High Mages, if the High Mages chose to attack.
He only hoped they’d remember that those so-called “Lesser Races” had just saved all of their lives.
Kellen patted the ox on the shoulder, urging it to move on.
The air was filled with the scent of green growing things, overlaying the smell of blood and death. Amid the shouts and cries of the workers, Kellen caught a snatch of birdsong.
He wondered just how long it was going to take to wipe away all trace of the battle.
WHEN he got back to his tent—not his own pavilion, but the one he was using now—Cilarnen was waiting for him.
It was a shock to see him. Cilarnen looked every inch a Mageborn. He was dressed head to foot in Armethaliehan garb, wearing what Kellen supposed must be House Volpiril’s colors, copper and green. Only his heavy fur-lined cloak and sturdy—though elegant—calf-high boots made any concession to his present surroundings.
But he looked far better than he had when Kellen had seen him last. The drawn, pinched, feverish look was gone from his face, and color had returned to his cheeks.
“You’re alive!” Cilarnen said, grinning with relief.
“Redhelwar told me you were, but it’s good to see it for myself.”
“Idalia isn’t.”
Kellen hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. She’d been Cilarnen’s friend as well. And it was unfair for that single death to hurt so much more than all the rest, but there were moments when it seemed to Kellen that Idalia’s death summed up for him every loss he had suffered in this war.
Cilarnen looked away. “I’d hoped … Lord Volpiril told me she vanished from the Circle, and Lord Lycaelon took her place.”
“We found her body at the Stones.”
Cilarnen reached out and put a hand on Kellen’s arm. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Kellen. I know—if you could you would have died in her place.”
“Any of us would,” Kellen said quietly.
“Jermayan?” Cilarnen asked.
“He was with her when we … found her. Alive, but I do not know where he and Ancaladar are now.”
Cilarnen sighed. He looked around. “So many dead. In the City … our losses were light by comparison, but much was destroyed. And as soon as we can, we must send to see what is left of the Delfier villages and the Home Farms. If anything. We shall need those Selken grain-ships that are coming, and more besides. I do not think that anyone will be planting anything this spring.”
Kellen shook his head. “The fields may come up by themselves, though. Look at the forest. It is green already.”
“Thank the Light for that.”
“Leaf and Star.”
“The Wild Magic,” Cilarnen said.
The two of them smiled at each other, and Kellen felt some of his heartsickness ease.
“What will you do now?” Cilarnen asked.
Kellen hadn’t really thought about it. “I suppose, eventually, I’ll go home. Back to Sentarshadeen.”
“But Kellen, this is your home. Armethalieh.”
Kellen shook his head, as certain of that as he’d ever been of anything in his life. “Cilarnen, whatever has happened, I’m still a Knight-Mage. There’s no place for me in Armethalieh, and there never will be.”
“Don’t be so certain of that,” Cilarnen said, smiling faintly.
“Oh?” Kellen said. “I suppose you’re going to change things around here?”
“I might,” Cilarnen answered. “They’re going to make me Arch-Mage.”
IT was an ancient Law of the City, and one that had only been invoked once before in all Armethalieh’s thousand-year history. Yet it was a Law of the City—and as such, it could be brought before the Council as a petition.
Volpiril had done so, early that very morning.
“My lords, I come before you today not as a member of this so-august and so-worthy body, but as a humble petitioner,” Volpiril said.
If the towers had been functioning, it would barely have been halfway through Morning Bells, but the High Council had been sitting since Second Dawn Bells. Between Cilarnen’s spell of the day before, and the storm the Mages themselves had allowed to lash the City, Armethalieh was in ruin and chaos. Work-parties must be assigned, Mages must be set to the task of repairs and spell-casting, the Commons must be advised and soothed.
Normally, none of these tasks and decisions ever reached as high as the High Council, for Armethalieh was run by a complicated—and very efficient—bureaucracy of many interlocking Councils. But after the events of the previous night, too many of the Mageborn who formed the links in that chain were absent—or dead on the Allied battlefield. The entire Militia, who should have been able to support the City Watch in keeping the Commons in their place, was dead. Much of the Watch’s functions had been taken over moonturns ago by the Commons Wardens, and the Commons Wardens were not to be trusted. They were being held under guard in one of the warehouses until their memories could be thoroughly gone over and edited. The Magewardens filled the cells below the Council House, and were being similarly—though more immediately—dealt with.
Meanwhile, the High Council floundered, bogged down in petty details it had never been meant to deal with.
“Oh, make your petition and have done, Lord Volpiril,” Ganaret said irritably. “What is one more petition on a day like today?”
“My lords, it has not escaped my notice—as I am certain it has not escaped your own—that Armethalieh is at present without an Arch-Mage to rule her.”
“This is no news,” Lord Dagan said. “I suppose you wish to put yourself forward for the position, Lord Volpiril? You have always wished to take Lycaelon’s place.”
Lord Volpiril bowed. “Acute as always, Lord Dagan, but no. Perhaps it has escaped your notice that I am not a member of the High Council at this present. No, I have another candidate in mind. But first, I would pose a ques
tion to you all: If you were to vote at this moment, for whom would you vote as Arch-Mage? The vote, as you know, must be unanimous—among so small a Council as this.”
There was silence from the five men above him upon the black stone bench. Lord Volpiril smiled.
“I see what you have already seen yourselves: None of you will support the accession of the others. Yet there must be an Arch-Mage. And in these times, more than ever before, he must be one with a wider knowledge of the world than any of us has. One who is not mired in the past, in the empty traditions that have already nearly doomed us all. One who can make Armethalieh truly a golden city, a city of the Light, once more.
“Consider, my lords. The harbor has been swept free of ships, many of them destroyed. The Delfier Valley has been scoured. We shall have to rely upon the Selkens—foreign trade—to feed us in the coming seasons. We dare not alienate them. We must resettle the Delfier Valley, and the folk to farm it must come from somewhere. We must—somehow—explain to our people not only what has happened this night past, but what has happened in all the moonturns of Lord Anigrel’s poisonous influence that preceded it. Who shall do these things? You, Harith? You, Lorins? Ganaret? Nagid? Dagan? Which of you shall embrace this troublesome future with an open mind and willing heart?”
There was silence from the High Mages.
“Oh, do tell us your amazing plan, Lord Volpiril—since you so obviously have one,” Harith said pettishly.
Lord Volpiril bowed mockingly. “Lord Cilarnen has the necessary qualities to do all these things. He is a friend to the Elves and the Wildmages. He has saved the City. Elect him Arch-Mage—let him rule with your guidance, and the guidance of those others who will join the High Council in the moonturns to come. That is my petition.”
“Impossible!” Ganaret roared. “He is but an Entered Apprentice! A child!”
“He has cast a spell at Master level,” Volpiril said. “You know that perfectly well. Waive the tests.”
“It can’t be done,” Nagid said. “He was Banished.”
“Unjustly. By a Creature of the Dark,” Volpiril said inexorably. “And by his actions, both in the world beyond our gates and here, he has proven himself not a child, but a man.”
“It is … irregular,” Lorins said. “People will say he is Anigrel come again.”
“That is a valid consideration,” Volpiril said. “And so, to avoid it, I suggest that he be appointed by not this Council alone, but by all Mages of Magister rank within the City. There is precedent, my lords. It was done once before. Thus did Camorin Andralan become Arch-Mage over Armethalieh, by the proclamation of all his peers.”
“And if they fail to acclaim him?” Ganaret asked suspiciously.
“Then you may return to your wrangling as the City falls to dust around you,” Volpiril said. “If you are so foolish and so blind as to wish that for Armethalieh, then I do not think she deserves to survive.”
For long moments the five Council members conferred among themselves, behind a spell-barrier that made their words inaudible to Lord Volpiril. At last Ganaret leaned forward again.
“Very well, Lord Volpiril. Your petition is granted. The High Mages of the City will be summoned together to vote as to whether to accept Cilarnen Volpiril as the new Arch-Mage of Armethalieh—if you, yourself, agree never to seek a seat upon this Council again.”
Lord Volpiril smiled sadly, bowing his head in submission. “My lords, you are all as aware of my ambition as you are of your own. But Cilarnen tells me there is a price and a cost for all things of worth, my Lord Mages. If that is to be mine, then I hold it a light one.”
THE conclave took place at the Great Temple of the Light at the center of the City. Every place was filled.
Cilarnen stood before the Altar of the Light, flanked by Lord Volpiril and the Chief Priest of the Light.
When his father had come to him a few hours before, after leaving the Council House, and told him that the Mages of Armethalieh were to vote on whether or not to appoint him Arch-Mage, he’d thought his father was joking—except for the fact that Volpiril never joked.
“You wanted to save them from themselves,” Volpiril said. “This is the only way.”
“But… Arch-Mage?” Cilarnen said. “I know nothing of being Arch-Mage.”
“Nor is your election certain. And if you are elected, I promise you a life of frustration and heartache, dealing with fools and greedy imbeciles—and those are only the ones I know. You will have seven new self-seeking idiots to block your every act, once the Council returns to full strength. You will have to lie, flatter, bribe, and threaten them to get them to do what you want, and if it goes on for long enough, you may not remember what, in fact, you originally wanted of them.”
“Oh, I shall remember,” Cilarnen said. He thought of what he had seen at Nerendale; the Demons slaughtering the farmers, the Militia, Thekinalo and Juvalira. Those days must never come again. “I will always remember. And perhaps good people can be found for the Council posts. That is always a possibility, my Lord Father.”
“First, you must achieve the appointment. Now come. We must be at the Temple of the Light at noon.”
“Noon? Today? But… we will hardly have time to speak to everyone. How will they … ?”
“Armethalieh is still the City of Mages. There is a spell.”
AND so here Cilarnen stood before the High Altar, awaiting the spell that would be cast over him, allowing everyone in the room to see, not his mind, but his heart.
If such a spell had been cast over Anigrel, he wondered, would things have worked out differently? Or would Anigrel’s Darkmagery have allowed him to twist the spell, and allow him to show them only what he wanted them to see?
His father spoke first, briefly, telling the assembled Mages what most of them already knew: that Lord Lycaelon had resigned, that the Council could come to no agreement upon who should be the next Arch-Mage from among their numbers. He reminded them all that an Arch-Mage could be chosen from any of sufficient rank by the vote of all the Masters in the City, as it had been done in Camorin Andralan’s time—a precedent that was still Law, though it had never since been invoked. He told those who did not know it that Cilarnen, having cast the spell to restore the Wards around the City, was indeed of Master rank, having cast, not only a Master Spell, but the most complex Master Spell of all.
A simple spell of Knowing placed all of Volpiril’s complex arguments in favor of Cilarnen’s candidacy into all of their minds at once, and Cilarnen blinked, stunned at the depth and breadth of his father’s trust in him. He only prayed he could do half the things Lord Volpiril hoped he could—not only for the good of the City, but for the good of everyone in the Land.
Now the time came when he must, himself, be judged.
Together, Volpiril and the Priest of the Light lifted their wands and began to draw glyphs about him. As each one settled over him, Cilarnen felt a tingling sensation as the spell began to settle, and he began to hear a whispering sound, as if he stood beside the ocean, instead of in the Temple of the Light. The room blurred, becoming brighter.
He wasn’t good enough. They’d reject him.
He was vain. He had a terrible temper. He liked to show off. He was … arrogant. Much too proud of being a High Mage—he knew it. He’d never understand the Wild Magic, and deep down, he really didn’t want to try. Though, actually, it was fascinating, because he knew that it and the High Magick had been one magic once, long ago. Maybe Dyren Lalkmair could teach him more.
He really saw no reason why Lord Lalkmair should not be allowed to conduct his researches as he pleased.
He thought Elven tea tasted terrible. He’d missed the food from home, although he’d tried to be polite. His feelings got hurt much too easily, and when they did, all he thought about was getting back at the person who hurt him. Of course, that passed very quickly, and he was ashamed afterward, but…
He liked fashionable clothes. And being comfortable. He liked jewelry, and scent. He�
��d missed the rings and jeweled chains he now wore. He didn’t like living in a tent in the cold. But he loved Anganil, and riding at a gallop through the snow. And Shalkan … oh, it had been worth everything, even Banishment, to see Shalkan and the other unicorns!
But to be home, home, home again. Armethalieh was where he belonged. He had been homesick every minute he was gone, and when he’d discovered how much danger his beloved City was in, he’d been terrified. When he’d first met Kellen—and been afraid that Kellen wouldn’t help—he’d been so afraid and angry that he would have done anything to force Kellen to help them, because Armethalieh was in danger and the thought that she might be destroyed terrified him more than the thought of his own death.
He thought of Stonehearth. Grandur and Sarlin and all his Centaur friends there. They’d been so kind to him when he had not deserved it.
They’d taught him, he realized now, to be human. To see past surfaces. To see people, no matter how they were shaped.
It was a lesson Armethalieh desperately needed to learn.
Finding out back in Stonehearth that his Gift wasn’t gone—that he could do something to help, to fight—was a moment of both terror and joy. Because he could do so little by himself. And because his Gift was supposed to be gone—Anigrel had been supposed to destroy it—and that meant that things were even worse in the City than he thought.
But he was here now, home now, and no matter what happened here today there would be something he could do to help Armethalieh.
The spell faded. The chamber darkened, and he could see properly again. Cilarnen swayed a little, blinking in confusion. Lord Volpiril put a hand on his arm, steadying him.
“My lord Mages,” Volpiril said. “It is time to vote. Do you accept Cilarnen Volpiril of House Volpiril as Arch-Mage of Armethalieh … or no?”
His father had told him in advance how the votes would be signified. Blue Magelight for “yes.” Red for “no.” Unlike a vote of the High Council alone, only a simple majority would be needed here.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 223
