“My lords, do you wish time for further discussion?” Lycaelon asked. “Or will you vote now?”
One by one, the assembled High Mages placed both hands, palm down, upon the table before them, each signifying his readiness to vote.
“Then I call the vote,” Lycaelon said. “Admission of Undermage Anigrel to the High Council.” He raised his hand, palm out. Assent.
One by one, the nine remaining High Mages copied his gesture.
The vote was unanimous.
Anigrel was to be admitted to the High Council.
IN the antechamber, Anigrel waited. It took all of his skill at concealing his true nature to disguise his nervousness now. Lycaelon was a master of manipulation, and after the events of the night before, the Council was a pack of nervous frightened old men begging for decisive leadership, whether they knew it or not. But it was still far from certain which way the vote would go.
Either way would serve his—and his Dark Lady’s—ultimate goal, of course.
If the Council accepted him, he would have a direct voice in the ruling of Armethalieh. He would be able to put forward his ideas himself, and not have to manipulate Lycaelon into coming up with them.
If the Council rejected him, it would enrage Lycaelon, and make the Arch-Mage that much easier for Anigrel to manipulate. But the son of Torbet Anigrel, himself the son of a tradesman—Torbet Anigrel, who had died in obscurity, spurned with contempt by the highborn, pure-blooded Mageborn—would burn with hatred and humiliation at the rejection. Not even his adoption into House Tavadon would salve that wound.
And either way, he must go before the Council and hear their verdict to his face.
At last—it seemed as if eons had passed, though Noon Bells had not yet rung—a Journeyman came to conduct him to the chamber.
Anigrel passed through the golden door and crossed the vast expanse of black and white floor. He reached the white marble square that marked the center of the chamber, turned to face the judicial bench, and bowed. The ten men looking down upon him might have been carved of the same material as the walls and floor, and for a moment Anigrel’s heart beat faster. Had it gone as badly as that?
Then Lycaelon smiled.
“Welcome. Welcome, Lord Anigrel, to the High Council of Armethalieh. May you serve the City long and well.”
Anigrel bowed—more deeply this time, and for once, he did not have to disguise his expression as he rose. An expression of joy was not at all amiss on such an occasion. What Mage worth his robes would not be overjoyed to hear such a pronouncement?
And if his voice trembled with emotion, well, that was not amiss either. “My lord Arch-Mage—my lord Mages. I vow to you that I shall render to Armethalieh such service as she has never seen in all her long and glorious history. This I do swear, from the bottom of my heart.”
“Then come, join us. There is much to do,” Lycaelon said.
Anigrel came forward and mounted the three steps he had ascended so often in the past on some errand for the Arch-Mage. But this time, he was not an errand-boy. He was a member of the High Council.
He glanced around quickly, found Volpiril’s chair, and seated himself.
“OUR first order of business: the boundaries of the City Lands,” Lycaelon said.
“I think we can safely agree that we must take the Home Farms back at least,” Lord Meron said smoothly.
“Certainly we must do more than that,” Anigrel said promptly, “but Lord Meron is quite right to remind us that we have a number of calls upon our resources at the moment. We must begin with the Delfier Valley, of course, so that the Banishings on our calendar proceed as scheduled.”
“No difficulty in outrunning a Hunt if the bounds extend no further than the City walls, eh, Meron?” Lord Nagid pointed out, and there was general, if slightly nervous, laughter from the assembled Mages.
“And meanwhile, in the light of the current emergency—though I understand this is only a formality—I propose that we immediately sever all ties, both explicit and implicit, with all Lesser Races,” Anigrel added. “In my work for the Arch-Mage, I noted that there were still active trade agreements in our records with the Elves, which is an intolerable threat to our security. Need I remind any of you that the Elven-born have long maintained cordial relations with the Wildmages? I do not say that they are the source of the umbrastone that lately plagued us … but now, more than ever, we must be strong in our loyalties to our blood and our race.”
He knew from his contacts with the Dark Lady that the Elves might attempt to warn the City that the Endarkened were active once again. Though there was little chance that the Mages would pay any attention to the words of one of the Lesser Races—or even allow them within the City walls—why take the chance?
“These matters must be voted upon as separate items,” Lord Perizel pointed out irritably. “First we must vote upon remaking the boundaries, then we must vote to sever all agreements with the Lesser Races. And what of the Mountain Traders? They trade with the Elves as well.”
“You are an example to us all, Lord Perizel,” Lycaelon said gravely. “Very well. Let us first settle the matter of the boundaries. The debate—and the vote—is upon the matter of extending them once more over the Central Valley. Discussion?”
But no man there wished to be seen as supporting Lord Volpiril’s policies. There was no discussion, and the vote was unanimous in favor of extending the boundaries back over the entire valley once more.
“So voted,” Lycaelon said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Tonight we will Work to extend the Borders once more, and at tomorrow dusk we will begin to cleanse Armethalieh of her traitors. We will resume at First Afternoon Bell to debate the second matter upon our agenda.”
WHEN the Council resumed after luncheon, at first it seemed that the matter that Anigrel had raised would occupy the Mages for the rest of the day. No one was in favor of trading with the Elves, of course, but the question of precisely what to do about it seemed—with Lord Perizel’s help—to become more tangled the longer it was debated. Were Elyen-made goods also to be excluded? What of those humans known to deal with Elves, such as the Mountain Traders, even though they no longer traded directly with the City? And should the ban be extended to those, such as the Selken Traders, who might be trading without any regard to proscriptions—who, in fact, might well be trading with anyone and anything that approached them?
Lycaelon might have been forced to table the debate—in the name of getting other necessary work done—if Auronwy hadn’t chosen that opportune moment to enter with a message.
“Your pardon, Arch-Mage,” the young Journeyman said, leaning over to place a single sheet of velum in front of Lycaelon, “but there is a … person outside the gates, requesting an audience with the High Council.”
Lycaelon glanced up at the odd note in the Council page’s voice. The boy looked positively terrified.
“What sort of person, Auronwy?” he said gently.
“A … an … Arch-Mage, it is an Elf!” Auronwy whispered. “He—it—he asked for an audience with the High Council …”
Lycaelon glanced down at the paper in front of him. It was the standard report from the guard tower on any who approached the Delfier Gate unexpectedly, listing the numbers of the party and the general description. The creature had come alone.
“Very good, Auronwy. Now go. Rest. We will deal with this.”
He waited until the Journeyman had left the chamber.
“My lords,” he said, raising his voice to cut across the discussion. “We no longer have the leisure for debate. At this very moment, one of the proud and haughty Elven-born stands outside the Delfier Gate, demanding admission to this very chamber. By our ancient laws and treaties, we must admit him … but what purpose can he have here? Is it not suspicious that he chooses this moment to arrive?”
“Yes!” Lord Vilmos shouted. “It is the Elves—the Elves are behind it all! They must be! Send the creature away! Send it away at once!”
/> Lord Vilmos, Lycaelon thought, would definitely be the next to go. He had obviously reached that time of life at which the stress of Council business was proving far too much for him. But for now, the man’s willingness to jump at shadows was proving useful. His hysteria stampeded the Council as nothing else could. Perizel suggested that they call the vote at once, but confine it entirely to the matter of the Elves and the Lesser Races; Lycaelon graciously acceded.
It was unanimous. Ties with the Lesser Races would be severed immediately.
Lycaelon summoned another Page. He scribbled a few lines on the Gate-captain’s report and sealed it with his Council ring.
“Take this to the head of the City Guard. Tell him that the creature waiting outside the Delfier Gate is to be turned away. Tell him he is authorized to use supreme force if necessary.”
CILARNEN had no idea how long he spent in the gloomy cell. When he awoke, Lord Anigrel was gone, and his head ached terribly. He felt dull and ill. This must be the way the unGifted felt all the time; he knew he had been stripped of his Magegift: the thing that made him a member of the ruling classes of Armethalieh, City of Mages.
Eventually, hunger and thirst drove him to investigate the basket the stone golems had left. It proved to contain several loaves of penance-bread, a large jug of water, a small tin cup, and a larger tin utensil whose purpose was not hard to guess. Though the water was flat and warm, thirst made it bearable, but he hadn’t the stomach to try the bread just yet. He still felt too sick.
Drinking cleared his head—enough to worry about his friends and his family. What would happen to his mother and his sisters now that Lord Volpiril was dead? Would his mother’s family take her back, with such an awful disgrace hovering over her? He vaguely recalled that his elder sister Dialee had been betrothed, but could not remember to whom—would her suitor call off the match? Undoubtedly. And poor Eshavi would certainly never find a husband now at all. Unless some common-born fellow deigned to take either of them. He groaned at the thought.
But such matters could not occupy him for long when he had his friends to worry about. Were they all to be Banished as well? Or was there some more terrible fate in store for them? He shuddered. What could be more terrible than being stripped of one’s Gift and being turned out of the Golden City to face an unknown future?
Or—were the rest of them to be spared, and only he to be Banished?
He would never know. Unless, somehow, by the mercy of the Light—and Cilarnen wasn’t entirely sure it would be a mercy—he managed to evade the Outlaw Hunt, and they did too, and he met them upon the road.
Cilarnen’s conception of the world outside the City walls was hazy at best, and his mind rebelled from contemplating it now. He would know soon enough, whether he wanted to or not.
Eventually hunger drove him to try the penance-bread. It was like no food he had ever encountered in his life. The bread was coarse and unpalatable, very strong-tasting, and required a great deal of chewing before he could choke it down. He supposed, dourly, that he should be grateful that an Outlaw-to-be was given any bread at all, considering the state of food supplies in the City.
He ate it all, but no one came to bring him any more.
In fact, no one came back at all, for a very long time.
The water in the jug—by now sour and brackish—was nearly gone when Cilarnen heard footsteps in the hall again. Not Stone Golems this time. The softer footsteps of leather boots on stone.
When the cell door opened, he could almost have cried with relief—he had nearly convinced himself that Undermage Anigrel had lied: that he was not to be Banished at all, but left in this tiny cell to starve and die of thirst. But he caught his breath in dismay at the sight of two City Constables in the deep scarlet uniform of the City Watch.
They were fully armed with truncheon and halberd, and regarded Cilarnen with expressions of disgust and contempt.
“Time to leave, Outlaw,” one of them said. He tossed a bundle to the floor. It skidded across the stone and stopped at Cilarnen’s feet.
He reached down and picked it up. Some kind of a pack. And a Felon’s Cloak.
He had seen Felons paraded in the City Square, of course: social unfortunates condemned to wear the lurid yellow Cloak with its black Felon’s Mark for a sennight or a moon-turn for some infraction of the City’s laws. But never—never!—had he thought that the day would come when he, a Volpiril, would be forced to handle such an object. Though the cloak was thick and warm—made of heavy felt—the fabric was harsh to the touch, and stank of cheap dye. He wondered who had worn it last.
“Put it on, Outlaw. And give me your Talisman. You don’t belong to the City any longer,” the Constable said.
Cilarnen touched the Talisman he wore around his neck. Though they might wear it on a leather cord or a cotton string or a silver chain or one of gold and jewels, every citizen of Armethalieh wore the same gold rectangle, marking them as a citizen of Armethalieh.
Now it was to be stripped from him.
With shaking fingers—feeling more light-headed than either hunger or panic could account for—Cilarnen unlaced his tunic and drew out his Talisman on its jeweled golden chain. The sapphires were colorless in the dimness.
It took him a long time to undo the catch, to work the Talisman to the end of the chain and slip it off, and when he got to his feet and walked over to the Constable, golden rectangle in hand, the man wouldn’t take it. Cilarnen stood there for a long moment before realizing that the man would not touch him, then bent and set the Talisman carefully on the floor. He’d thought nothing could make him feel worse than waking up and knowing he’d been stripped of his Gift, but losing his Talisman—his last tie to the City—was somehow worse. He clasped the chain again carefully and tucked it back into his tunic.
“Now put on the Cloak, pick up your pack, and let’s go,” the Constable said, drumming his halberd-butt on the floor of the cell to emphasize his point
Quickly Cilarnen picked up the Cloak. As he did, the Constable picked up his discarded Talisman and put it into the pouch on his belt.
“Put it on, Outlaw!” the man barked, apparently having used up what little patience he possessed.
Thoroughly cowed, Cilarnen quickly put on the Cloak and pulled the hood up over his face. It tied at the throat with a drawstring, but his hands were shaking too hard for him to manage that, and he settled for wrapping it around himself. He picked up the leather pack and held it in his arms, uncertain of what to do with it.
One of the Constables stepped outside the door. The other—the one who had done all the speaking—gestured with his halberd for Cilarnen to follow. Cilarnen staggered after him, wincing at the brightness of the corridor after so long in the dimness of his cell.
He wanted to cry, to scream, to run. But there was nowhere to run to.
He followed the Constable up a flight of stairs, wishing now only that the nightmare would end as swiftly as possible. As he neared the top of the stairs, he heard the first notes of Evensong begin, and discovered, with sick surprise, that he was in the Western Courtyard. Ahead lay the Delfier Gate, with the lesser gates within the Great Gate standing open. Waiting for him.
It was sunset—of what day? a foolish part of his mind wondered—and the day had been bright and clear. He hesitated, shivering as he breathed in the cold winter air, and was rewarded with a sharp poke in the back from the Constable’s halberd. It registered only dimly through the thick fabric of the Cloak, but that the man had dared to do it was shock enough.
“Keep moving, Outlaw.”
The golden bell of the Council House joined the Evensong, its booming ring so close that Cilarnen winced as he staggered forward. Constant proddings in the back urged him to quicken his pace, and soon he was almost running toward the open gate.
He stopped in shock the moment his feet touched dirt. He was outside the walls.
Behind him the Lesser Gates boomed shut. Cilarnen stood there in numb shock as Evensong slowly faded into si
lence. He clutched the Cloak around himself, shivering with cold—back in the cell he would never have thought he’d be happy to have it, and it was not nearly as warm as any of his own warm winter cloaks, but it was far better than nothing at all. He took the time, now, to tie the drawstrings at the throat closed, but the cold made him clumsy, and he dropped the bag he’d been holding. It hit the ground at his feet.
As he picked it up, he remembered Undermage Anigrel’s words. The bag contained bread and water. Food!
He tore open the sack, revealing another penance-loaf and a full waterskin. He tossed the sack away and drained half the waterskin in a few gulps, then tore into the loaf, wolfing it down hungrily. It did much to still the growling in his belly, but when it was gone he was still outside the gates of the City.
It was dark—twilight—and growing darker quickly. He was colder than he’d ever been in his life—as much because he knew there was no welcoming hearth and hot cider at the end of his journey as because of the temperature. He ought to just sit down right here and wait for dawn. But some strange impulse of restlessness made him head down the rutted cart track that led away from the City.
ONCE he might have summoned Mage-light to light his way, Cilarnen thought bitterly, as he stumbled along in the dark. Or at the very least, he might have Called Fire to warm him. Now all he could do was grope his way from tree to tree, unable to understand why he didn’t simply lie down in the middle of the road and wait for it all to be over.
But something deep inside wouldn’t let him.
He startled at every unfamiliar sound—and there were many. The very bushes seemed to be alive with unnameable creatures, and moonturns of neglect had left the road crusted with ice and hard-packed snow. Cilarnen fell several times before he learned to walk upon the treacherous surface.
At least—once the moon rose—the whiteness of the snow made it a little easier to see where he was going.
To Light a Candle Page 28