No. He would take a horse. They must have horses. With a horse he could outpace the Outlaw Hunt, and be beyond the bounds of the City Lands before it reached him.
He could not quite remember when it had become so important to outrun the Hunt. It hadn’t been anything like a conscious decision. If he’d had anything approaching a plan for his future, it had been to face the Hunt: surely there would be a Mage with it, to control it? Perhaps he could ask for more time to make his way out of City lands? Or perhaps the Hunt would escort him the rest of the way? That must be it. All that talk of Undermage Anigrel’s about the Hunt tearing him to bits had only been to frighten him. It must have been. How was he supposed to know where the boundaries of City Lands lay? It wasn’t a subject studied at the Mage College, after all. The night spent outside the walls must only be a punishment, and the Hunt sent to escort the Outlaw to the boundaries of the City Lands in the morning. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
But now he’d abandoned all notion of awaiting the Hunt. The only thing that mattered was getting as far away as he could as fast as possible.
Then he saw the light.
Here in the darkness, among the winter-bare trees, it was easy to see: a bright spark, burning steadily. For a moment Cilarnen wondered if his eyes deceived him. He blinked hard, but it was still there, somewhere tauntingly ahead.
With renewed purpose, he moved toward it.
“I See you, human child.”
The cool voice came out of the darkness when Cilarnen was still too distant from the light to make out anything but that it burned. He stifled a yelp and froze where he stood. Though he strained his eyes against the darkness, he could not see the speaker, though from the voice, whoever had spoken must be very near.
“You have seen my lantern.”
This time the voice came from nearer yet, though he’d seen no sign of movement. Cilarnen ground his teeth shut on a moan of terror.
“I see by your raiment that you have been cast out by the Golden City.”
This time the disembodied voice actually seemed to expect some reply. Cilarnen took a deep breath, mustered all his courage, and answered.
“I—Yes. I was cast out. Banished.” His voice was hoarse, but steady. Speaking reminded him of how thirsty he was, and he wished he hadn’t thrown away his waterskin when it was empty. But what good had it been to him then?
“Come. Warm yourself at my fire. The night is cold.”
Cilarnen took a shaky step forward, and immediately tripped over a stone. An iron grip just under his left elbow steadied him. He yelped aloud at the contact.
“Forgive me. I had forgotten what poor vision you humans have. I will conduct you, if you will permit.”
Cilarnen nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Even this close, his rescuer was still no more than a shadowy cloaked and hooded figure to him, although he was standing right next to him. And could apparently see quite well, for at Cilarnen’s nod, he began to move forward, leading the young Outlaw through the darkness toward the unwavering light.
As they approached, Cilarnen could see that it was a small lantern. By the light it gave, he could make out a tidy campsite. There was a brazier such as the Mages used in making Magick, and beside it a bedroll spread out upon the ground, with a pack set at its head. Some sort of traveling merchant, then. A horse and a pack-mule were tethered nearby, and regarded him incuriously. Even in Cilarnen’s distracted state, he could see that they were animals of great quality.
The brazier radiated a surprising amount of heat. Cilarnen moved toward it gratefully, holding out his icy hands toward its warmth. Only then did he turn and look back toward his companion.
The man was wearing a dark grey cloak with a deep hood lined in silver fur. As Cilarnen watched, he raised gloved hands and pushed the hood back, affording Cilarnen his most profound shock of the last several days.
It was not a man at all, but a—well, it wasn’t a human creature.
Skin nearly as pale as snow, dark slanted eyes, long pointed ears that rose up through the sleek black hair elaborately coiled at the base of the neck. With a jarring sense of unreality, Cilarnen realized he was gazing upon a member of one of the Lesser Races. An Elf.
An Elf, within City Lands! For a moment he felt a spasm of indignation and righteous wrath, before he realized it simply didn’t matter to him anymore. He’d been Banished.
His momentary fury vanished, to be replaced by numb weariness. He simply stared at the Elf, unable to think of anything else to do.
“So. You have been Banished. And I—have been barred from your gates. It seems we have something in common, then; and I suspect that it would be best if we took ourselves elsewhere. We will drink tea, and then we will prepare for the journey. I think it would be well if we were both out of the lands claimed by the Golden City before dawn,” the Elf said, regarding Cilarnen calmly.
The Elf was going to take him outside the City Lands ahead of the Hunt. At the moment that was all Cilarnen cared about. With a sigh of exhaustion, he sat down next to the brazier.
—«♦»—
ANIGREL’S formal investiture as a member of the High Council took place at the Chapel of the Light at the Mage College that Light’s Day. It directly followed his formal adoption into House Tavadon, and it was hard to say which ceremony was the more significant of the two, though one had been overseen by as many people as could cram themselves into the Great Temple in Armethalieh’s Central Square, and the other was attended by only a select group of the highest-ranked Mages of the City.
In the first ceremony, Anigrel (now and forever Anigrel Tavadon, having chosen that as his new name) knelt before Lycaelon and the Arch-Priest of the Light as he swore his Oath of Adoption. He rose, was divested of his plain grey tabard and given a new one embroidered in the Tavadon colors—black and white—making his new status plain for all to read. He then gave his new father a formal son’s kiss.
Then the City Rolls were brought out—the great record in which every citizen’s birth and occupation, marriage and death, were recorded. And with the whole City to witness, the Arch-Priest altered them, adding Anigrel’s name beneath Lycaelon’s own.
And so it was done.
The Chapel of the Light was smaller, and the oath he swore there was more complicated than the one he had sworn in the Great Temple, but Anigrel meant it as little—and as much—as he had the other. It was that which kept the Mages who administered it from detecting any deception on his part, he suspected. Anigrel sincerely intended to serve the City. And bringing it under the rule of the Endarkened would surely be best for all, in the end.
There he exchanged his new tabard for yet another—this one with additional embroideries marking him as a member of the High Council, this time in his own, newly-chosen colors: red and gold. He received his staff and his ring of office, and the second ceremony was complete.
Normally the day would end with festivities at Lycaelon’s house, a party such as had marked his first son’s Naming, or Lycaelon’s own ascension to the dignity of Arch-Mage. But these were troubled times, and there was much work to be done. Instead, after a brief flurry of congratulations to the newest member of the High Council, the Mages returned to the Council House—even though it was Light’s Day—to debate Anigrel’s latest proposal.
—«♦»—
AS this was a more complicated matter than either of the others, Anigrel had gone to the trouble of drafting a formal written proposal, which had been circulated to the Council earlier in the Day. He was fairly confident it would be accepted, at least eventually. After all, there was still the matter of the other conspirators to run to earth—and with Jorade Isas’s, Margon Ogregance’s, Kermis Lalkmair’s, and Geont Pentres’s memories thoroughly edited, and Tiedor Rolfort and Cilarnen Volpiril Banished—and Rolfort certainly dead—the Council had destroyed any possibility of tracing the true genesis and scope of the problem.
He wondered if any of them realized that.
He’d had to move fast to get his hands on Kermis Lalkmair before the boy was returned to his father—not wanting to risk the possibility that Lord Lalkmair might choose to be merciful, Anigrel had wished to remove all memory of “Master Raellan” from the boy’s mind—but the man had reacted entirely as expected. Young Kermis was now living upon the charity of distant relatives while he recovered from the Excision of his Magegift and the destruction of all memories related to his Mage-training and to the conspiracy. Frankly, Anigrel did not expect the boy to live very long.
But though the actual “conspiracy” was quite dead, Anigrel had no intention of allowing it to seem so. Its success had not been his purpose for starting it in the first place. Even his seat on the Council had only been a welcome dividend.
No. His intention had been to create a climate of fear among the Mageborn. Fearful men were easy to manipulate.
—«♦»—
IN the Council chamber, Lord Lycaelon called the Council to order.
“We are gathered in this special session of the High Council of Armethalieh to consider Lord Anigrel’s proposal for the good of the City. You have all had an opportunity to review a copy of his proposal, as is our custom. Now Lord Anigrel will make his formal presentation.”
Anigrel allowed the silence to gather for a moment before speaking. He knew that the members of the Council would already have discussed the matter among themselves. But this was his chance to sway them further.
Harith would back him, of course, once he saw that the Arch-Mage approved. Vilmos was ready to start at shadows, and would vote in favor of anything that held out the faintest hope of security. Four sure votes out of eleven—only two more would give him a sufficient majority to pass his measure. Fear: that was his best ally now. Fear killed thought, and the more fearful men were, the more they were ready to give up in exchange for the promise that the source of their fears would be dealt with.
“Lord Arch-Mage—my fellow Councilors—in this past sennight we have been led to the shocking and unwelcome revelation that our fellow Mageborn— whom we thought above corruption, above reproach—can be led to conspire against their fellow Mages and against the City. Let me assure you all that I will not rest until I have rooted out every last tendril of corruption and exposed it to the healing fire of the Light.”
There was a murmur of reluctant approval from the men seated around him.
“But—as we are all unfortunately aware—that is not enough. We face a time of great trial. Where there was one assault upon our security and the safety of our City, there may be more, and as you, my august brethren, have pointed out so many times, our enemies are many.
“And so I propose to you that we be vigilant inwardly as well as out. I propose a Council of Magewardens, its members to be drawn from the ranks of both journeymen and High Mages, who can move freely among the Mageborn, seeking out trouble before it starts. No longer will we be forced to bear the burden of such tragedies as have so recently befallen us. We can be warned against them before they have a chance to happen—and more. We will know the names and the faces of our enemies, whether within or without, before they have the opportunity to steal the hearts and minds of our innocent children as they slumber peacefully in their beds.”
So far, there was no sign that any of the Council members found this to be an outrageous notion. That was good. He pitched his voice to sound reasonable, reasoning, and calm. “Such a vast undertaking is not without its mundane costs, and I know as well as you all what a heavy burden our precious City labors under at this moment—a burden that it will be the work, not of moonturns, but perhaps of years, to redress. And so I propose two further measures—not only that there be an organization similar in nature to the Magewardens to move among the common people of the City, actively seeking out those who might wish to change things for the worse, but also I propose a tax upon magick, to fund both Wardencies.”
Some puzzled looks, perhaps, but no outright objection. “The second Wardency upon the Commons I can understand,” said Harith, sounding as puzzled as he looked. “And it is more than reasonable—the commons are so easily led and manipulated, after all, that I am surprised we had not instituted such a thing before. But why a tax upon Magick?”
Anigrel gave him a look of empathy, as if to say that there was every reason to be puzzled. “My lords, Magick is a great gift. We Mages tirelessly labor for the good of the City, expending our lives and our Art like water poured out upon the sand—and our work is as little regarded by the average Armethaliehan, I assure you! They take the privileges we exhaust ourselves to provide as no more than their rightful due. This must change. If the common people wish to profit from the wisdom we have spent so many painful years laboring to acquire, they should pay a price for the benefits we bestow. And if they doubt those benefits, well, it would be no bad thing to permit the farmers from the Delfier Valley to be allowed some free gossip, so that our own citizens understand the calamities that can befall when those benefits are withdrawn.”
He sat back, indicating he had finished.
“This is, as you well know, Lord Anigrel, three separate matters,” Perizel said, sounding bored. “Let us settle the matter of how—and if—you are to fund your grand plan before deciding whether it is to go forward, shall we?”
“Very well,” Lord Lycaelon said, with a faint sigh. “We will consider the matter of the tax first—and separately. Continue.”
“But… the Commons already pay for our services,” Lord Lorins pointed out, after a moment.
“They pay for the spell, yes,” Anigrel said. “But do they pay for the privilege of being allowed to have the spell at all? And so many spells are not actually paid for—those that control the weather, for instance. Or those that keep buildings in repair. I am suggesting a tax, not an increase in fees.”
“They’ll never accept it,” Lord Arance said dryly.
“Then let them do without,” Lycaelon suggested. “Naturally this would not apply to matters affecting the City as a whole—at least, not at first. Simply to private, individual matters—the ones we all find so tiresome. Or simple things that do not truly affect much except minor comfort. Weather Spells for instance. Those that prevent snow from falling within the walls; those that keep rain from falling except at night. A few days of slogging through wet streets might change some minds.”
“But… a new tax?” Lord Lorins asked hesitantly.
To Anigrel’s surprise and delight, here he had an ally, and an entirely unexpected one. “Actually,” Lord Perizel drawled, “it is a very old tax. It merely has not been assessed in the last few hundred years. But you will find it still on the tax rolls, Lorins, if you take the trouble to look. I see no reason we should not reinstate it. We can always use the money for something, and Light knows we have spent enough Golden Suns on the Selkens this past quarter to leave the Treasury in need of replenishment.”
Anigrel should have known that Perizel, that peruser of ancient records, would know there had once been such a tax! That made things much simpler.
Something new—well, that would be resisted. But something old—oh, that was to be embraced.
After a bit more discussion, the measure to institute—or reinstitute—the tax on the privilege of calling upon the Mages for Magick was passed.
The discussion over the formation of the Magewardens and the Commons Wardens took far longer. Everyone was in favor of keeping a closer eye on the Commons, of course, but no one was completely comfortable with the idea of spying—for that was what it amounted to—upon their own kind. Only when Anigrel promised that he would head the Magewardens Council himself, and make full and detailed reports of everything it discovered, was Lycaelon able to at last call the vote.
The measure passed, nine to two. Perizel and Arance abstained.
—«♦»—
“YOU take too much work upon yourself, Anigrel,” Lycaelon said afterward, as the two of them walked toward Tavadon House through the winter evening. “You will burn
yourself out, and end up a doddering friendless old man—like me.”
Spirits of Darkness, the Arch-Mage was making a joke. Anigrel smiled. “Dear Arch-Mage, that will never happen—not while I am alive. But you must see, it was the only way to gain a majority in Council. I confess, I was surprised at how the vote went, at the end.”
Who would have thought that so many of the witless sheep could be stampeded so easily? He’d have to keep an eye on Perizel and Arance, though.
“As am !” For a moment the Arch-Mage’s expression went hard and distant, then it softened again. “But we shall soon bring those doubters to heel. And now we shall go… home, my son.” Lycaelon’s voice was fond.
Was it at all possible that the Arch-Mage was growing senile? It was too much to hope for—though Anigrel knew spells that could help the process along—and certainly the man had received enough shocks recently to drive a lesser man to a state of catatonia.
“ ‘Home.’ It has a good sound, Lord Arch-Mage. But I think—if you will permit—that I will keep my rooms at the College as well.” He smiled. “There are those whom in my capacity as Chief Magewarden, I should not like to bring into our house.”
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