by Kim Wedlock
But the whole matter had become unimaginably complex, a fact the others seemed to forget about all too easily, and while it had finally come together once, after months of toil, there was any amount of opportunity for it to go wrong on the second try. The crisis they were embroiled in went well beyond personal insult. And with Salus pursuing them...he may not have needed the Zi'veyn himself anymore, but his paranoia still wanted it out of their hands, and that meant his people were likely to be even less careful when they inevitably found them. The Zi'veyn's destruction along with them may suit him well. And quite probably the elves, too.
He battled back a yawn and refocused his attention.
He would get no help on watch tonight.
Chapter 20
"We know that they're minuscule spell chains of some kind, elven in origin, which appear to be weaving into the surrounding elements. But, more crucially than how, what we don't know is their nature. We have no idea what they're capable of. But, despite the evidence, I do not believe that they're intended to be destructive, the effects are too varied and random.
"They've also gathered here from somewhere, and suddenly; this phenomenon has been experienced far beyond our northern borders, which implies that it is not a result of neglected preservational duties, and unless there has been some international underground co-operation between subversive mages, the Order bears no fault at all. It also implies that the magic has a source, and if we can understand the chains' nature, we can locate their point of origin and, perhaps, staunch the flow.
"An opportunity to study the magic will provide us the chance we need to discover its nature, its structure, its source, and on then to whether or not it can be countered, deflected or relocated. It's also an opportunity to explore magical advancement - work has been done on dissipating magic, but never in such great concentrations--"
A hand raised. Owan fell silent. And waited.
The morning light was still obscured by the iron-clad clouds; instead the grand magister's office was illuminated by a few lanterns and a single obedient orb that glowed with the warmth of a tame and miniature sun. But the miserable temperament of the weather outside seemed to ooze in through the open window, stifling what little comfort those flickers could offer while the air, at least where Owan was standing, seemed so thick that it hummed against his eardrums.
The grand magister leaned back into his seat and turned his old eyes upon him. Owan fought the urge to shift and fiddle with his papers. "You say Rathen Koraaz has a plan?"
He deflated. His pretence had been shattered. "Yes."
"But you haven't a clue what it could be?"
"...No, but--"
"Then how," he asked calmly, "could your studies possibly help him? And should you discover something with potential, how could you possibly get the information to him? On your own word, I have given him the benefit of the doubt; should he, of all people, against all odds, succeed in finding some way to repair the matter, I will do what I can to keep the attention off of him. But I barely managed to dissuade Riken that he's out there at all, which means that, should anyone provide indisputable evidence to the reverse, the Order will appear to be working with him and covering it up. We will be under even greater suspicion."
"Then why," he began carefully, "if I may ask, did you lie at all?"
Arator smiled. It was a little too bright and mischievous for a man in his seventies. "I did not lie. Aside from your word, I have no evidence that he is out there, and neither does Riken." He rose, then, and wandered towards the window. He looked out over the city of Kulokhar, high enough in the tower to observe its three mile presence from wall to wall, from the artisan to the stately districts and everything in between. And high on the edge, overseeing all, the palace, a mixture of elven and common design, built entirely by the hands of humans.
Owan watched his eyes travel towards it, as they often did, and wondered once again at what he was thinking. Was he marvelling wistfully at the combination? At the decision of their ancestors to unite that which they didn't understand, even hated, with their own ideas and identity? Did he search for hope within that?
Or was he looking beyond the spirals, bartizans and tympana and pondering instead the people within - the king, the council, and their distrust?
He gave no hint. "Rathen Koraaz is not a tactless man," he said at last, his gaze unmoving from the distant palace. "He knows, with his circumstances, that he will have to keep himself hidden, and all the more so with the present unrest. And he is accompanied by an inquisitor, you say - a man whose very position requires finesse in judgement. But whatever they are up to, we cannot help them. I'm sorry, Owan. What information we could give them, they will have to discover on their own. We cannot have a hand in this."
"With all due respect, Grand Magister, we neglect the matter because we don't want to aggravate the populace, but they already believe we're responsible, and the magic is getting worse. It's snaking in through the Olusan Mountains and has already torn up Halen, Ausokh, Fen--"
He raised a silencing hand again. "I know, Owan. And believe it or not, I agree with you. But as I said: tact. For now, we must leave it alone." Now his eyes shifted, scanning the city as a whole while regret slipped in to mark his tone. "The people are riled - five over-eager graduates attacked Nestor not five days ago. They misunderstood the intent behind the rebellion, they were only looking for violence, and in light of it there have been four retaliatory attacks on mages across the country in just as many days, none of whom were involved with this pocket of extremists nor even resorted to magic to defend themselves. But that only seems to have added insult to injury." He turned away from the window and back to his desk, but he avoided meeting the scholar's gaze. "We have to focus our efforts on repairing our own situation before it is beyond our reach. Then we will be able to move more freely."
"And in the mean time--"
"In the mean time, you will stay within these walls. If you go out there and start poking around, people will lose their heads. The Arana will detain you in a heartbeat, and given the delicate situation we find ourselves in, it will not be so easy to transfer custody. King Thunan himself is wary of us."
"Yes but it's--"
"Our responsibility, I know, Owan. Truly, I am sorry. But my hands are tied. You must not try to help."
But then his eyes turned up to him, lit by something strange. A light frown flickered across Owan's face. "You have studies to see to. Perhaps you should focus upon them. Whatever they may be. Take no offence to my ignorance - we scholastically-inclined often have several projects in the air, do we not? It's quite impossible for the grand magister to be aware of them all." Coolly, he opened a drawer and withdrew from it a sheet of parchment and prepared the quill standing neatly beside the inkwell. "In the mean time," the nib began scratching across the paper, "I think I might check in with my nephew. His family lives near Mokhan, and Ziili has been adversely affected." Then he added, quite casually: "He's a member of the Hall of the White Hammer, you know."
"He is?"
"Oh yes. Very low rank, of course, but, I tell you, there is no such thing as an unimportant job."
"What is he?"
Arator didn't look up from his letter. "A sparrow handler."
Owan left the office defeated, wringing his notes in frustration. His intentions had been discovered all too easily, and while he supposed it hadn't been difficult after formally proposing field research twice already that week, he'd succeeded only in making himself feel further staunched and restricted. But his research simply couldn't move ahead without a closer look at the magic, and despite the apparent weakening of the elder's stance this time around - making contact with the White Hammer's communication masters and, at best, forming a channel to the inquisitor in Rathen Koraaz's company - he was still steadfast on his rejection. And what use was there in a messenger sparrow if they had no message to send?
He sighed and frowned deeper to himself as he descended the spiral staircase, paying no heed to the p
ainted eyes of notable mages or ancient elven figures that followed his every move. His irritation was piqued even further by his own indecision. On one hand, he understood the grand magister's position. He was the head of the Order, and in such turbulence, their every movement mattered. But on the other, this was the Order's responsibility, and their lack of action didn't sit right with him at all. By doing nothing, they were giving the populace greater reason to accuse them of disloyalty.
But he hadn't a choice. He was under the Order's command and he had no wish to go against his superior's orders - though that didn't mean he wouldn't raise the subject again. He still had matters to present. Matters, it seemed, he needed to be reminded of. Because it wasn't just Rathen he was trying to help.
Just as crucial as stopping the manifestation of the magic was the health of his very own people. He was certain that this magic was the root of the affliction passing among a small number of mages, an affliction that compromised their sanity and killed not only them, but any innocents that happened to be around at the time. And it seemed that they were not actively seeking out victims. Something pulled them away from the safety of the Order, something dragged them off in apparently random directions, but what and to what end, no one could suggest, because none of the tormented ever remained long enough to be asked or followed. This affliction was giving the mage hunters just as much ammunition as genuine attacks; every case plunged the Order into deeper disgrace.
The worst case so far occurred only a week ago in the Green Hills, wherein the explosive death of a lone ex-sahra battalion major had diverted the river and caused a landslide, burying the low-lying village of Adeliene and all its occupants. The singular upside was that no one seemed aware that magic or mages had been the cause. It was, on all accounts, simply a tragic disaster. But Owan couldn't shake the sense of responsibility, as hard as he tried. All it had done was reinforce his determination to bring the whole ordeal to an end.
But for now, all he could do was focus himself on his many varied studies. Whichever, given the present circumstances, he should find the most gripping. And if he managed to find anything hiding in plain sight, among the details he and others even more capable had pored over for months already, he at least had the potential means to share it.
He reached the bottom of the stairs, but his foot hesitated above the floor as a thought suddenly struck him.
What if he didn't need to send information? He was stuck in Kulokhar with every other scholar - but Rathen was not. Rathen was very much out there. What if he could send him a message asking him to take note of certain details and pass them back to him? Then he could apply it to his own work from the safety of the city and well within the grand magister's orders, from which Rathen himself was exempt. Perhaps he'd already uncovered the details Owan needed, but had no idea what to make of them! Whatever the case, as he'd said to Clarilla, someone had to have managed something for the magic to have gotten worse, and a presence in his gut told him that it had been none other than Rathen's doing. It just hadn't been enough.
Which meant that Owan could indeed be of use. Rathen would just have to help him first.
He hurried on through the corridors, past offices, study rooms, archives and vaults and on instead to his preferred space overlooking the gardens, his purpose bolstered, enthusiasm revived. His next task was suddenly quite simple: work out which details were the most important and translate it into a form that Rathen could make sense of without having to seek help.
He wondered in his haste, as his feet trampled fine carpets and polished wood, in a quiet corner of his mind, if this wasn't what Arator had intended in the first place.
Salus stared at the miniature report with a soft furrow in his brow. Upon his first read, he'd assumed he'd made a mistake. Upon his second, that the operative writing it had. Upon his third, that, somehow, the person to deliver it was at fault. After the fifth, he dropped it to the desk and held his face in his hands.
Teagan promptly dismissed the young boy and braced himself for the reaction.
But it didn't come for some time. Instead, when the keliceran's hands slipped to steeple upon the bridge of his nose, he appeared to be wrestling with a number of thoughts, trying to decide which should trouble him the most. Whatever the case, the matter couldn't have been severe, or the desk would have been upturned.
Finally, he dropped his hands and began to speak, but only a brief and disjointed noise managed to get out before confusion reasserted itself. Eventually, he shook his head in dismay. "He's done it."
"...Sir?"
"He's done it, and there wasn't a thing Andrew could do to stop him... And he lost him soon afterwards - a rushkin set upon him, would you believe." He shook his head again, eyes wide in search of understanding. He looked up at Teagan, but, of course, he didn't look back. "A rushkin! And for that, Koraaz got away..."
Understanding erased the wrinkle from Teagan's brow. "Koraaz. Then by 'he's done--"
"He's used the Zi'veyn. At Borer's Teeth. The thing floated between his hands and the magic faded, as far as Andrew can tell. Light vanished, water returned, and then out came the beast, they fled and it charged for him instead." But his perplexity remained, dragging his attention further onto the other matter that seemed to increasingly dominate his thoughts. "Why did a phaeacian have to be the one to find them? Why not a phidipan? Why not a portian?! There are too few of them - had portians been on their tail sooner, this whole matter would have been resolved already!"
"Not everyone can take the conditioning."
"No. But perhaps we need to find more who can..." Salus trailed off into thought. Teagan waited patiently. "We need to do something about the phaeacians--"
"They cannot simply become portians--"
"I wouldn't want them to be portians!" Embers sparked in his tired eyes. "They can't be trusted to hold a knife by its handle! They continuously fail at the simplest of missions, and consistently use non-humans as an excuse!"
"I doubt they are making it up."
"I'd prefer that they were. The very issue is that they're not. Harpies, ditchlings, rushkins..." he bit off a snarl and sank back into his chair. For a long moment, the ceiling engrossed him.
Teagan's eyes slipped onto him. He looked weary, sleep-deprived, but his mind was present. And yet, despite his relative calm, despite the room for rationality, he seemed disinclined to use it. His belief that the phaeacians were useless had only grown in recent weeks, and in that time, he'd convinced himself. It was true that phaeacians were not trained to the same depth as phidipans, and neither were they to portians, but no one brought into the folds and reaches of the Arana's web were incompetent. Not one. They just had to be assigned the right jobs for their skills.
Teagan straightened and snapped his eyes back to the wall with a self-disciplining frown. The keliceran was not to be blamed. Every one of them, phaeacian and otherwise, were accountable for their actions and decisions. Surely, if Salus believed it, the phaeacians should have been better than this. "What do you have in mind?"
Salus drummed his fingers upon the desk. "Get them out of the way," he replied at last. "Send them across the borders and have them keep an eye on things out there. Recall the phidipans except those implanted and have phaeacians take their place."
"All of the phaeacians? We will thin our numbers fiercely if we act indiscriminately."
"Mm..."
"And lose valuable skills."
"...You're right. Yes, you're right. There must be a few who are capable and possess skills we need to hold on to... And we'll need to renew our extermination," he added easily. "Phidipan or not, we can't have non-humans getting in the way like this; they've already hampered our latest efforts against spying on Doana, and the tribes may have moved off for now, but it's only a matter of time before they swing back around, dragging their squabbles onto civilised land." He glanced sidelong at Teagan, but this time, he didn't question the necessity. Clearly, he was beginning to understand.
He struck t
he desk in decision and a fire of enthusiasm flared in his eyes. "Yes. This is it. This is it Teagan! The Arana needs an overhaul - get the profiles, we begin immediately!" He all but leapt out of his seat, surging past the portian to retrieve them himself in his excitement.
"Sir," his favoured began while Salus dropped the folders on his desk, "what do you intend to do?"
"I already told you, we're rearranging--"
"I meant about the Zi'veyn." He noted Salus fall still. "If they have used it, should we not be addressing it? We have no idea what they are planning, but this is clearly progress."
He resumed opening up the folders and stayed quiet for a while. "This comes first," he replied at last, flat and resolved. "Phaeacians can't be trusted to do anything. We need to pull in as many phidipans as we can, and portians. Anything that can be handed to phaeacians, will be. Our priorities are within our own borders. We need mages on their tail. And at Borer's Teeth, we need to find out what they've done."
"Many of our mages are occupied. And one of those implanted within the Order has been caught by mage hunters." He didn't react to the flash of Salus's gaze. "She escaped easily enough, but they are increasingly disruptive. It's only a matter of time before our residential spies are hindered. We should consider doing something about them."
Salus looked slowly back to the agent profiles. "No. Not yet. They're keeping the mages on their toes. As troublesome as they are, they're no doubt preventing worse. They're a necessary evil."
"If they're left alone and unopposed, they will only grow in number and influence; the disruption will escalate. The guards are already having trouble keeping control of them."