Proper Mage-robes had been brought for Cilarnen to dress himself in—they lacked the tabard that showed his house colors, rank, and magickal honors, but they would do—and the Master Spellbook had been brought from the Council Archives, so he could read over a spell he had never expected to see, let alone cast.
It was long and complicated.
But he was a quick study. He’d had to learn to be.
And it wasn’t as if he was going to be the only one casting this spell for the first time. Of the seventeen of them gathered here in the Council Chamber, only Lord Kerwin had ever participated in the Casting of the Wards before, and that only as a Journeyman, assisting the Mages. Until Anigrel had come to the Council, the High Council itself had re-cast the Wards each moonturn. Now, they dared not trust the work to any of those whom Anigrel had chosen to take their places.
There would be thirteen of them doing the actual Casting. The other five—High Mages all—would prompt them through the ritual, doing the work of Journeymen to keep the braziers stoked, and, if disaster struck and someone could not go on, hope to take his place in the Casting before the ritual unwound itself.
“You wear no City Talisman, Lord Cilarnen,” Lord Kerwin said.
“No. I do not need one.”
It was why he was taking the key position in the ritual, bearing the Great Sword of the City. With the Elemental Energy at his command—he hoped—the Casting would go faster. The wards would be stronger than before.
They needed to be.
“How is that possible?” Lord Kerwin asked. He did not seem angry, only puzzled.
And more than a little terrified by the sounds coming from outside.
Cilarnen only wished he could be there as well as here. He was needed in the battle. His spells could make a difference. But there were many battles to fight. This was another. Perhaps, when the City Wards were up again, he could go out and join them.
“Once, long ago, the High Mages drew their power, not from the people, but from an alliance with those whom you now call Illusory Creatures: the Great Elementals. I have made this pact again—one that I look forward to ending. But not yet. Come. We have much to do.”
IT had been hard enough to persuade them to work in daylight. Harder still to convince them that the spell could be done outside of the proper ritual Hour. But Cilarnen’s studies had convinced him that it could. It was easier to do it at the proper time, of course. And of course the most subtle and delicate spells were impossible to do outside of the proper ritual Hours. But the spell for the City Wards had been cast and overlaid so many times over the centuries that it must be burned into the stones of the City by now. It would be harder to do during the day, in the middle of a battle, at the wrong Hour, but it could be done.
All it would require was more Power.
He could provide that.
If it doesn’t kill me.
When he had been Student-Apprentice, in his first years at the College, Cilarnen and the other boys had terrorized themselves deliciously with tales of spells that required a life to feed the casting. Such things were unknown in the High Magick, of course, though occasionally, as he had found out later, accidents did occur in ritual, when a spell went awry.
It was a different thing than the Wild Magic, when a Wildmage might be asked to offer up his or her life as the Price of the spell.
But the two forms of magic had, so Cilarnen now believed, once been one.
And if that Old Magic now asked for his life in exchange for the restoration of the true and proper wards to Armethalieh’s walls, well, he was willing to give it. It didn’t matter if the people were ungrateful, or had no idea what he was doing. You didn’t do the right thing because people thanked you for it. You did it because it was right.
He stepped to his place in the Great Circle. Kerwin handed him the Sword of the City.
The other twelve High Mages took their places on the working keys.
“We will need Mage-Shield cast around the Council Chamber before we begin, because the Wards are down,” he said. “Lords Henius, Vacion, if you would?”
A violet shimmer wrapped itself around the walls and ceiling, dimming the light.
Chadure and Segnant placed the first measures of incense upon the braziers, working their way sunwise around the room, until all eight braziers were wreathed in smoke. They stepped back to the walls.
Cilarnen raised his sword and drew the first Sign upon the air.
The twelve Mages surrounding him mirrored his actions with their wands.
It was begun.
KELLEN thinks I cannot handle a sword.
The thought came to him briefly, randomly, as he paused for a moment, panting for breath.
The room was so filled with smoke he could barely see.
The Sword of the City … glowed.
His robe was plastered to his body with sweat. The room was like a furnace. There was nothing to be done about it. The High Magick was an art of self-control and privation. Mages were trained to endure hardships that would destroy lesser men.
He moved quickly to the next figure.
Astrelus had collapsed. Chadure had taken his place.
They had been working for—he estimated—a Bell. The full ritual took three Bells as the High Mages worked it. Time for the Power to rise and settle. But with the Elemental Energy at his command, Cilarnen did not need to wait, nor would he. The army outside their gates did not have Bells—or hours, as the Elves reckoned time. The Wards must be restored as quickly as possible.
And somehow, the Wards themselves were helping.
The High Magick was an inert machine, a thing. He had always been taught that. It had no life beyond what a High Mage gave to it—certainly no consciousness, no will. Yet when Cilarnen had begun the ritual, drawn the first Glyph, he had sensed … something … rousing itself to meet his own intent. Something of the Light.
No High Mage would have accepted that touch. But Cilarnen had learned much in his travels outside the City. He had bonded with Elementals, wild and tame. And so he had reached out eagerly to that slumbering life he sensed, trying to draw it toward consciousness, feeding it not only the scripted power of the spell, but the raw Elemental force that he carried within his own body.
Slowly, it began to wake.
The Wards of the City were complex, formed of layers of intention. To protect, to guard, to make of the walls and the very air above Armethalieh a defense against anything that was not, ultimately, of the Light. To do this they must be filled with an ultimate understanding of the Light, its nature and its purpose, laid down from the very beginning of the City. An ability to see into the very souls of any creature who might presume to pass through the Gates, to breech the City’s walls by any means.
To know …
To see …
To understand …
The air was thick, as if he moved so fast it could not part before him. The sword flashed each time he moved it, so brightly that he could not see the shapes of the glyphs he drew in the air. When he had begun, it had been heavy. Now it seemed to move of itself, drawing him with it.
His heart pounded in his chest.
His hair was plastered to his scalp. Sweat rolled down his face, into his eyes, blinding him. But he no longer needed to see.
Five glyphs left. The most important ones.
The Seals of the Four Quarters. And the Binding Seal.
First, to the north. He stumbled as the sword seemed to haul him in that direction, but righted himself in time. He could not fail now. No one else could take his part.
Down. The tip of the sword rang from the floor. Up. Around. The complicated tracery of the North Gate, glowing in every shade of blue that there was.
Finished. Sealed.
He swept the blade sideways.
East. The blade rang against marble.
The Seal glowed in every shade of gold, from deep amber to palest yellow. Sealed.
South. Down. Up. Heartsblood scarlet, violet, palest pi
nk, ruby. The sword shook in his hands. He clutched the hilt tighter.
All my will, all my strength, everything I am, I give to this Working …
Done. Finished. Sealed.
West. A green so dark it was nearly black, the pale green of new leaves, the dusty green of the ocean, the bright green of new grass. All the shades of green that the Demons would take from the world if They won.
Finished. Sealed.
He swept the sword back through the North Gate, linking them all.
The four Seals burned in the air.
Now the Great Seal to link them all and set the spell. Without it, all that had come before was useless. He stepped back to his first position.
He was cold.
He raised the sword in salute. Suddenly it was a dragging weight in his hands, where moments before it had been light. He could barely lift it.
He gritted his teeth, and flung it up into the first line of the Great Seal.
Blinding white light followed the tip of the sword, cascaded back down the length of the blade, over his hands. It should have been hot, but it was cold, cold, it seemed to be draining all his strength.
He would finish this. He must.
The Great Seal was the most complicated of all. He worked quickly, desperately, forcing the sword through the complicated arcs. Smaller and smaller, and each loop and whorl must be exact, just as Master Tocsel had taught him.
He was hot. He was cold. He could not tell which. The smooth marble floor beneath his feet had become a thousand knives, and his sweat had turned to blood. He could taste it. Each beat of his heart was slower.
One … more …
He raised the Sword of the City in the final salute.
All five Seals vanished.
The spell was cast.
He … felt … the Wards reform. He felt the City awaken, the spell that rendered it, in some sense, a living thing remade at last. Felt it reach out, eagerly, for the power he had promised it, the power it needed to do its work.
And then Cilarnen Volpiril knew nothing more.
THE fighting had been going on for hours. The sun was setting. The Allies were holding their own, though their losses had been heavy. It was a consolation that the Enemy’s losses seemed to match theirs.
No more Deathwings prowled the sky, and they hadn’t seen either a Coldwarg or a Shadewalker in hours. The Frost Giants had tried a flanking attack, but had been stopped by Belepheriel’s Knights. The Elven Commander had fought them all the way to the water’s edge; many of Belepherial’s command would have their names entered in the Great Book at the House of Sword and Shield for their work this day. But Belepheriel still lived, and the Frost Giants had been stopped.
And the High Mages of Armethalieh had joined the fight.
Not many. Kellen didn’t think the City had many to spare. But the Lesser Gate had opened, and ten young men in gray robes with ill-fitting breastplates over them had come riding out toward the army.
They’d looked terrified.
Dionan had brought them to Kellen.
“I—You—You’re Kellen Tavadon,” their leader said.
“Yes. You?”
“Geont Pentres. Of House Pentres. I—”
“Do you know any spells?”
Pentres looked affronted. “Of course I do! I am a Journeyman Mage!”
“Will you work with Wildmages?”
From the look on his face, Kellen might have been asking him if he’d work with Demons, but he nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. We all will. That’s why we came.”
“Good. Dionan. Find the Wildmages and take these to them. Tell them we have High Mages now and have them tell them what to do.”
VOLPIRIL had said there were riots going on in the City, but Idalia saw no sign of them as she and Jermayan followed Lord Lalkmair back to his house. The Mage Quarter looked very much as she remembered it from her girlhood; a series of nearly-identical imposing (pretentious) mansions set widely apart. Except for a few servants here and there, the streets were deserted.
It might have been any ordinary day in Armethalieh.
“They seem to be exceptionally calm,” Jermayan commented.
“Exceptionally stupid,” Idalia said waspishly. “Until one of Them is actually here in person, I doubt most of them will either know—or care—what is going on outside the walls.” She sighed bitterly.
“Yet Lord Volpiril seems to be … helpful,” Jermayan said cautiously.
“That’s a little odd, I’ll admit. I think partly he’s out for revenge on the rest of the Council—and Lycaelon—for what they did to him. Not that I’m complaining, since it works to our advantage right now. But the moment we don’t have a common enemy, we’d better watch our backs.”
“May that day come swiftly,” Jermayan said.
“Yes,” Idalia agreed, realizing what she’d said. “I hope, for all our sakes, that it does.”
It was about half an hour’s walk—two chimes, by City reckoning—to Lord Lalkmair’s mansion, and Idalia supposed they were being watched from every house they passed. But the City Watch didn’t come into the Mage Quarter unless it was specifically summoned, nor did the Militia, and today both bodies had plenty to occupy them elsewhere.
The Magewardens might have been a problem: From what Idalia knew of them, they went everywhere and did pretty much as they pleased. But they were unlikely to ignore a summons from the Arch-Mage himself, and Volpiril had taken the precaution of ordering all the Magewardens brought to the Council House, by a decree sent out over Lycaelon’s personal seal. She didn’t know how many of them there were, but six High Mages ought to be able to keep them in line, and she knew from her own youthful experience that there were prison cells beneath the Council House. They might all be there already.
If so, good.
They stopped on the paving in front of Lord Lalkmair’s mansion. Like most of the High Mage’s houses, the front doors were flanked by a pair of stone statues; in this case, a pair of large marble eagles, each holding a torch in one uplifted claw.
“Perhaps I should go first,” Lord Lalkmair said, nodding toward the eagles. “They are bespelled, you know, to attack strangers. I am not sure they would harm the Elf—Jermayan, did you say? Such a foreign name—but they would not like a Wildmage at all. No, indeed. However did you come to find the Forbidden Books, Lady Idalia? You must tell me.”
Idalia sighed. “There will be time for study later, Lord Lalkmair—after we have the spell and have cast it. And I do not believe your guardians will be bothering anyone today.”
She strode up the walkway and tapped one of the eagles on the chest.
It didn’t stir.
“How odd,” Lord Lalkmair said, following her and peering over her shoulder. “Yes, indeed, you are quite right. The spell has been completely distempered. Most peculiar. I should have noticed myself. Thank you, dear child. Pray, come inside.”
The three of them entered the house.
Eighteen
The Light at the Heart of the Mountain
A BUTLER STOOD at the door, ready to receive guests, of course: No matter how eccentric Lord Lalkmair might be, he was still a High Mage of Armethalieh. The man was dressed in the House Lalkmair livery; Lord Lalkmair’s colors were rust and ochre. His eyes widened when he saw Jermayan and Idalia.
“Well, Parland, don’t just stand there like an Imaginary Creature! My cloak, and those of our guests. Tell Cook to have tea and cakes sent to the library. And be quick; I do not like to leave the door open. And I do not wish to discover any of you skulking in doorways, either.”
Parland bowed. “Yes, Lord Lalkmair. Ah, my lord is aware that one of his guests is … an Elf?”
Lord Lalkmair turned to regard Jermayan. Jermayan had removed his helmet—he had not worn it in the Council Chamber, but he had replaced it for the walk to the house, in case there was any need to defend them—and his Elven features were plainly visible. Lord Lalkmair sighed.
“Indeed, Parland, your acuit
y has not diminished with the passing of years. My guest is indeed an Elf. His name is, is …” Lord Lalkmair seemed to have forgotten it again.
“Jermayan,” Jermayan supplied.
“And were his presence not known and welcomed by the High Council, he would not be here. Now, have I satisfied your curiosity thoroughly?”
Parland bowed, saying nothing.
“Indeed,” Lord Lalkmair grumbled. “My servants are a great trial to me. Kermis could keep them in line, but … but …” His face clouded and he fell silent.
Kermis Lalkmair. That was one of the names Cilarnen had mentioned. Dyren Lalkmair’s son. When Anigrel had framed him for treason, the man before her had stripped his son of his Magegift, and Kermis Lalkmair had killed himself.
In the Council Chamber, Idalia had thought of him as a kindly, befuddled, bumbling old eccentric, but suddenly Dyren Lalkmair didn’t seem so much like that after all. He was a man who could destroy his own son’s life for the sake of his own pride.
Like Lycaelon. Like Volpiril.
“Come,” Lord Lalkmair said. “Let us go to my library, Lady Idalia. We shall search for what you need.”
AS a child, Idalia had spent many illicit hours in her father’s library—as, she had later learned, her brother had also done.
Lord Lalkmair’s library was nothing like it.
Just to begin with, it was much larger. And messier.
Bookshelves filled every wall. Books were crammed in on top of books, and when that space was filled, they were stacked upon the floor. The center of the enormous room was filled with the longest table she had ever seen, and it, too, was stacked with books, scrolls, and various small objects. The entire ceiling was lit with Magelight, which was fortunate, as shelves obscured the room’s large windows, blocking off all natural light.
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