“If it’s thick enough to stop a sword blade—and it will have to stop one or two—it’s too heavy to lift,” Kellen protested. “And it’s fragile besides.”
“Nay, that is a myth,” Artenel protested. “Indeed, glass does become fragile with time. But new glass is supple, and when thick, is very strong. Yet a mace will crack it if it is not reinforced, nor have I the resources here to make shields of glass.”
“What about wood?” Kellen asked. “The acid will eat through it, but not fast, if it’s thick.”
“And wax,” Idalia said. “It’s not as good as glass, but it’s lighter and a lot more flexible. If you layer wood with sheets of wax—or even just cover a wooden shield with wax—it should be even more resistant to acid. They don’t have to last forever; just for one battle. It’ll burn like a torch, though.”
“But I will cover it in the finest leather,” Artenel said, brightening. “And the leather may be water-soaked before battle, then wax laid atop the leather as well. I think we may have discovered the very thing that will serve to confound the foe. It would even serve to hold a thin pane of glass, should some be found in time.”
Just then Ancaladar returned to camp. The dragon swept low over the camp once, signaling that there was news, before disappearing into the distance.
“He’s found them,” Kellen said, staring after the dragon.
“It would be more accurate,” Idalia said tartly, “to say that Vestakia’s found them. I’m going to go see if she’s all right. You stay here.”
THE news had spread throughout the camp by the time Kellen returned to his tent: Shadowed Elves had been found near Ysterialpoerin. Messengers had already been dispatched to Andoreniel and to the Viceroy of Ysterialpoerin to give warning, and the army was making ready to deploy in all its strength, since not one, but two enclaves had been found.
Shalkan said Vestakia was fine, though very tired. Kellen very carefully kept from going to see for himself.
Not seeing Vestakia left him plenty of time to worry about other things, though. All he knew about Ysterialpoerin was that it was the oldest and northernmost of the Nine Cities—which meant it would be even colder there than here, if possible.
He’d barely begun going over a list of things to do—and orders to give—when the bells at his doorway jingled. “Be welcome,” Kellen said, turning.
It was Kharren, who was to Adaerion as Dionan was to Redhelwar, though she also commanded a force of her own. Adaerion was Kellen’s direct superior in the military hierarchy, which it had relieved Kellen to learn when he’d eventually discovered it. Better Adaerion, steady and fair, than someone he could never hope to impress—like Belepheriel.
Kharren stepped inside and stood in the doorway of his tent, regarding him politely.
“I See you, Kharren,” Kellen said, remembering his manners.
Kharren bowed slightly. “I See you, Kellen Knight-Mage. Adaerion wonders if it would be convenient for you to attend him.”
Kellen bowed in return. “It is always a pleasure to receive Adaerion’s wisdom.”
AFTER the formalities in Adaerion’s tent had been observed, and tea had been poured, Kharren departed, leaving Kellen alone with Adaerion.
“One observes that you distinguish yourself well,” Adaerion said, sipping his tea, “and that your discourse is always refreshing.”
Kellen tried not to frown. What was that supposed to mean? Adaerion’s expression was impenetrable. Kellen wasn’t sure whether he’d just been insulted or not.
“I thank you for your notice of me,” he finally said.
Adaerion smiled. “Impatience is a poor General, yet decisiveness wins many an engagement. This evening Redhelwar dines with his senior commanders, to discuss how best. to approach the coming problem. Were you there, perhaps you would contribute some remarks to the conversation.”
But I won’t be there, because Belepheriel, at the very least, would pitch a fit, Kellen supplied mentally. Even if it would be logical for a Knight-Mage to be present this evening, Senior Commander or not.
Suddenly he realized what this little tea party was really about. Adaerion was giving him the chance to tell him what he wanted them to know, so that Adaerion could present Kellen’s ideas.
Kellen hesitated, trying to figure out how to phrase his remarks in the indirect fashion that Elven protocol demanded.
“Oh, come, Kellen,” Adaerion said gently, and for the first time, allowed a commiserating smile to curve his lips. “Do you think I have never spoken with a human before? I shall not shatter, I promise you. Nor think less of you for being what you are, for if you are human, then you are also a Knight-Mage, and Shalkan’s rider. You are impatient, and this is a good thing, for some among us have far more patience than is needful. Speak as you would to one of your own kind. No one else is here to hear.”
Kellen relaxed. “Thank you,” he said with real warmth. “I think—now that we have found them—it’s important to know the layout of the inside of the Shadowed Elf caves before we enter in force. We still don’t want to risk Vestakia for that, though we might need her to find the entrances. But we still have Idalia’s tarnkappa, and they worked before to conceal our presence from the Shadowed Elves. What I think is that before the attack, scouts wearing tarnkappa should be sent into the caverns to map them. If they’re lucky, they might even discover a route to the villages inside. Then we’ll have some idea of what we’re facing.”
“So you would scout ahead,” Adaerion said, nodding. He paused, as if to gather his resources. “Who would you choose?”
Kellen looked surprised, more at the content of the question than that Adaerion had asked it; he was becoming used to the Elves dropping into War Manners now and then when it was the only convenient way to speed a conversation along. “The best scouts. And—anyone with experience in caves, or rock-climbing. Some of the cave paths are pretty narrow, and the tarnkappa won’t protect someone from being discovered if they’re bumped into. So they might have to climb to get out of the way.”
“How many would you send?”
Kellen shrugged, forgetting for the moment that this was a human gesture Adaerion might not understand. “It won’t matter too much—once they’re wearing the tarnkappa, they won’t be able to see or hear each other. Two or three, perhaps, so that at least one returns. No more.”
“Would you go yourself?” Adaerion asked.
The question seemed somehow different from those that had come before it, but Kellen answered it just as honestly. “I would go if I was asked to. I do not think that I would be the best one to send. If I used the Wild Magic, it might make them aware I was there—and during an important scouting mission is not the time to find out. In some ways, I am the best suited to the task, and in some the worst. I do know that while I would volunteer, I am not the person best suited to make the decision.”
“These are good answers. Very … simple.” Adaerion seemed to be relieved to be finished with his questions, and Kellen was reminded once more that Elves found questions not only rude, but sometimes very difficult to ask as well—perhaps even more difficult than he found their mode of speech.
“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 n
ow 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 matter. 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 …
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