‘I’m surprised you want me spending time with apprentices, since you think so little of my abilities,’ said Velindre tartly.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he retorted, scathing. ‘I think very highly of your wizardry. Your admirable focus on our element has led you to some remarkable insights. I can’t recall seeing anyone with more feeling for the elemental air in the twenty years I’ve known you. What you’re lacking are the necessary instincts for the demands of an office such as this.’
He waved a curt hand at the parchments littering the table. ‘As Master of Hiwan’s Hall before my elevation to this office, I got used to keeping all these balls in the air, better than a festival juggler. You’ve always been able to put your own interests first, and that’s all very well, but an element master—or mistress—needs to take a wider view. He can’t stay aloof if his feelings have been hurt. He can’t turn unapproachable if he doesn’t want his studies disturbed for days at a time. He needs to keep an ear to the ground, not have his head in the clouds.’
‘And you had Planir’s ear when it was time for him to make his nominations to the Council.’ Velindre came perilously close to sneering.
Somewhat to her surprise, Rafrid laughed, a full-throated chuckle. ‘You flatter me if you think our esteemed Archmage would hand me such an honour just because I fancied wearing this pretty blue ring myself.’ He leaned forward, waving the faceted sapphire at Velindre, who flinched as if he’d offered her a blow. Rafrid scowled blackly for an instant before he continued. ‘The only opinion of mine that Planir sought was who should replace me as Master of Hiwan’s Hall. I don’t know who first suggested that I should be elevated to this rank of Cloud Master, but I do know that Planir took a long time to think it through and consulted with wizards far more eminent and experienced than you or me, here in Hadrumal and beyond.’
He paused for a moment and when he went on, his voice was level, even kindly. ‘I don’t pride myself on defeating you, Velindre. I simply want to justify the faith our fellow mages have shown in me. I’m charged with the better guidance of those born to master our element and with helping those born with an affinity to another to a fuller understanding of the interactions of air with earth, fire and water. I want your help, not your hostility. That’s what the apprentices need, and our pupils.’
Velindre said nothing, her sharp face icy calm.
Rafrid sighed with exasperation. ‘Make yourself available to any apprentice wanting your instruction from breakfast till noon. Your time’s your own after that. I’ll let it be known that you’ll be considering new pupils over the Equinox festival. There should be two or three keen enough and bold enough to put forward their ideas for your consideration. After Solstice, you can expect your contemporaries studying the other elements to recommend their most promising pupils in the normal fashion.’
‘As you wish, Cloud Master.’ Velindre turned to depart, her hazel eyes impenetrable.
As she reached for the door latch, the Cloud Master spoke again. ‘The next time a bunch of apprentices come to me, I want it to be because they can’t sing your praises loudly enough. I told this last lot that you’re one of the most skilful wizards on this isle. Don’t let me down.’
Velindre showed no response as she opened the door, about to step out on to the stairs.
‘Give some thought to what Otrick would have made of your behaviour lately,’ Rafiid called after her. Velindre slammed the door behind her so hard that the reverberations echoed all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell, pursued by the angry clatter of her booted steps on the aged treads. ‘What would Otrick have made of all this?’ she muttered, furiously scrubbing away the sting of angry tears with the back of one hand as she snatched her thick cloak from a peg. ‘What would he have made of your prosy lecturing? Do you think he’d have started apprentices on summoning showers to freshen up a turnip’s wilting leaves?’
Her stride lengthening, Velindre crossed the flagstoned courtyard walled on all four sides with ranges of accommodation. She glanced up at the garrets with their little gabled windows jutting through the stone-slated slopes of the roofs, chimney stacks spaced between them. Which of the apprentices crammed into those poky rooms had had the gall to complain about her?
Her gaze slid down to the first—and second-floor rooms, wider windows shut firmly against the bitter weather. Who were those ungrateful pupils who’d begged for her guidance and now felt entitled to whine when she’d cast them off to stand on their own two feet?
They were better off trailing around after the likes of Colna and Pemmel anyway, she thought with contempt. The uninspired deserved the insipid. Let them coddle the apprentices and the pupils; she had better things to do. She would find some insight into magic that would restore her reputation within the higher ranks of Hadrumal. She would find something to make Planir sit up and take notice, something to make the Archmage regret his mistake in passing her over.
She glanced back over her shoulder at the central tower of the wizard hall, at the triple-mullioned window of Rafrid’s eyrie at the centre of the four quadrangles. What would Otrick have made of him as Cloud Master? The old scoundrel would have laughed himself breathless and then sent everyone into hysterics with his incisive dissection of Rafrid’s inadequacies.
She raised a hand to her eyes as the pain of ()tick’s loss stabbed her anew, heading blindly for the dim passage that threaded through one corner of the courtyard.
‘Excuse me, miss.’ A laundry maid tried to step out of Velindre’s path, hampered by her wide wicker basket.
‘I beg your pardon.’ Velindre flattened herself against the plastered stone wall to let the servant pass. She felt the damp and cold on the back of her neck and pulled up the hood of her midnight-blue cloak, tying it loosely. The first impetus of her anger spent, she walked more slowly out through the gate and into the narrow lane running behind the Leeward Hall. So her mornings were to be taken up with the misapprehensions and misunderstandings new apprentices always spouted.
No, you’ve not been sent into some irreversible exile. Ships that have the Archmage’s trust come and go from Hadrumal all the time,’ she mouthed as she walked along the cobbles. ‘Yes, you’ll be able to go home to visit your families—once you’ve learned how not to set chimneys alight when you’re angry or freeze the water in the well when you’re miserable.’
Velindre felt a measure of sympathy for the magebom of the mainland, most without any wizard nearby to guard and guide them through the first manifestations of their affinity, never mind the fearful rumours still perpetuated by the ignorance of the mundane populace. Then resentment put such feelings to flight. No, the Council of Wizards isn’t a cabal of astute and powerful mages secretly directing kings and princes down the paths of wisdom. Don’t you think the mainland might be less riven by faction and self-interest if that were the case? No, it’s a circle of self-satisfied men and women who struggle to look beyond the sea mists they use to hide Hadrumal, scrying spells notwithstanding.’
She took a still narrower lane cutting across her path and leading between high stone walls towards the long, curved high road that was the backbone of the modest city of Hadrumal. Behind her lay the warren of humbler buildings housing the craftsmen and tradesmen who supported the island’s mages in their studies. Reaching the high road, Velindre looked towards the fog-shrouded hills gently rising beyond the city, where the island’s yeomen raised their stock and tended their fields, the remote towers of the wizard halls a distant curiosity.
She could go and stay with her father’s brother. Let these apprentices who were so keen to study with her prove their worth by traipsing all that way every morning. Let Rafrid make a fool of himself trying to drag her back to the city. And her aunt and cousins wouldn’t give a Lescari penny piece for the gossip around the wizard city, any more than they had in those timeless summers she had spent on their farm as a child. There wouldn’t be whispering in corners and bright-eyed, hushed speculation as to just why it was that Archmage
Planir had found her lacking and why the Council had handed the prize that should have been hers to Rafrid, of all people. No. That would be running away. Neither her father nor her mother would approve of that, always supposing they looked up from their books and parchments for long enough to notice her absence. As she walked along the flagstones, she glanced at the pale tower of Wellery’s Hall, its yellow stone a contrast to the grey sky. Over to the east, the squat stump of Atten Hall’s central tower was barely visible over the intervening roofs.
They would be expecting her to still be working towards a seat on the Council in her own right. They’d set that path before her ever since they’d first encouraged her adolescent fascination with her burgeoning affinity. Hadrumal needed to be guided by wizards with a sound understanding of the full potential of magic in the wider world. Then the clear-sighted leaders of this hidden isle could instruct the blinkered rulers of the mainland along better paths than the ones they inevitably chose for themselves. Velindre’s mouth quirked wryly. That remained to be seen. No matter. Her stride lengthened again, setting her cloak flapping, its azure silk lining bright as a summer sky. She passed the dark hollows of several gateways before turning into a courtyard with a fountain at its centre. The basin was dry and the statue at its centre invisible beneath a swaddling of straw and sacking. Was there no one in this hall with the time to spare for a charm to protect the stone from the frosts?
As Velindre passed the fountain, a stairwell door in the far wall opened and a slight woman emerged. She was almost as heavily muffled as the statue, with a mossy green scarf pulled right up to her vibrant chestnut eyes.
‘Ely.’ Velindre moved to intercept her.
The woman twitched her scarf down with a gloved hand to reveal a fine-boned face with wisps of black hair just visible around the edge of her knitted cap. ‘Whatever you want, keep it short.’
‘Rafrid’s just lectured me about my responsibilities to the apprentices.’ Velindre grimaced extravagantly. ‘You must know who Troanna would like to see given a leg up, or Kalion, perhaps?’
‘You still think it’s worth keeping in with them?’ Ely cocked her head to one side, birdlike. Naturally,’ said Velindre, unperturbed. ‘And Rafridcan go jump a rope if he doesn’t like it.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out.’ Ely shivered inside her cloak and her turquoise earrings trembled. Did Rafrid say anything else?’
Velindre shrugged. ‘About what?’
‘He’s one of the few who get to see our esteemed Archmage in private.’ Ely’s elegant, finely plucked brows disappeared beneath the ribbed welt of her hat. ‘Did he let slip anything about Planir’s mood? Any clue as to what might be going on behind that granite facade?’
Velindra shrugged again.
‘Oh well.’ Ely’s carefully painted mouth tightened with irritation—‘Have you seen Galen anywhere?’
‘I came here looking for him.’Velindre raised her pale golden brows at Ely. ‘You and he are keeping company again?’
‘He has his uses,’ Ely admitted with a sideways smile. ‘Especially when it’s this cold.’
‘More fun in your bed than a warming pan?’ Velindre wondered with faint amusement.
‘Sometimes,’ Ely said a trifle sourly. ‘Still, who knows, he might make Stone Master someday.’
‘Who knows,’ echoed Velindre. ‘I won’t keep you. Just send any likely apprentices my way’ Ely pulled her scarf up over her face again. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open for news of Planir, if you’re playing the dutiful underling to Rafrid.’ She clumped away across the empty courtyard in bulky sheepskin boots and vanished beneath the arch of the gateway. Velindre looked up at Galen’s windows. He had no more chance of becoming Stone Master than he had of becoming Archmage, even if Planir consented to relinquish the lesser of the two offices he held. Ely was deceiving herself if she thought she was going to enjoy any influence as Galen’s lover. She had better stick to seeking advancement through the gossip she garnered and supplied to Flood Mistress Troanna and Hearth Master Kalion. She certainly wasn’t going to win a Council seat on her own merits. Ely’s promise as an apprentice had never really come to much.
Velindre chuckled as she made her way from the courtyard. She hoped for Ely’s sake that Galen had learned more of a lover’s skills than he’d had when they had all been pupils together, in those days when anything had seemed possible. Her smile faded.
Hadrumal’s high road was largely deserted. A few carts trundled along the cobbles to deliver faggots of firewood or anonymous sacks and chests to the closed shop fronts of the tailors and cobblers, the bookbinders and ink-sellers. One wine seller had opened his shutters and profligate candles brightened the interior, soothing chilled apprentices cradling cups of mulled wine fragrant with herbs and spices. Velindre slowed as she caught the tempting scent of new bread, warm from the oven. Then she picked up her pace. She was hardly in the mood to swap pleasantries with neophyte mages half her age. Stepping across the runnel of muck and rain in the gutter, she crossed to the opposite flagway where mismatched shop fronts yielded to the ancient stonework that bounded the paradoxically named New Hall. Passing beneath the black shadow of a gatehouse with carvings long since weathered to obscurity, Velindre crossed a courtyard where hollows in the flagstones worn by countless generations of feet were dark with moisture. Reaching beneath her cloak, she drew out a keychain and unlocked the iron-studded door at the base of the central tower. Inside, a stair spiralled tightly upwards. Snapping her fingers, Velindre summoned a pale-blue flame to light her way up the dark stone stairs. She passed the door to the rooms on the first floor without slowing. At the door to her second-floor sanctuary, she paused, keys in hand, looking up the silent stair towards the empty rooms above. What would Otrick have said to her? It was becoming difficult to recall the exact sound of his voice. There were days when memory of his face was blurred in her mind’s eye.
She unlocked the door and walked into her study, flicking the pale flame into the fireplace where kindling laid ready instantly caught fire. Dust from the coal crackled. The brass catches and polished chestnut of the tall cupboards set on either side of the fireplace glowed as the flames grew stronger. The opposite wall was shelved from floor to ceiling on either side of a narrow door, books and parchments neatly ordered. A few curios inten-upted the array: a flute made from a bird’s hollow bone and a small glass case containing a precisely labelled collection of winged seeds dried to papery fragility. Propped here and there were studies of birds and precisely detailed seascapes, some in oils, others in chalk or ink. A single high-backed, leather-covered chair stood beside the fireplace while two uninviting, unpadded chairs flanked a wide table where leatherbound books ordered by size awaited her attention, inkstand and quills precisely arranged to hand. Velindre ignored the books in favour of the fresh, floury rolls and a slab of dense yellow cheese left by one of the hall’s maidservants. A substantial chunk of sweet bread thick with preserved plums had its own plate, flanked by a small flagon of red wine and a crystal jug of well water. What would Ely do if Galen offered to marry her? Velindre wondered idly as she tore open one of the rolls. Did she know he’d once had the folly to propose to Velindre? Was he still looking for something between a wife and a mother, who’d darn his socks and sew his buttons and tempt him with dainty meals, and certainly never threaten him with wizardly talents outstripping his own? Well, that hadn’t been the first dalliance Velindre had had sour with such rivalry, nor the last.
Otrick never had felt threatened. She poured half a glass of the rich, red wine, and, lifting her eyes to the plaster cornices of the ceiling, silently toasted the old wizard’s memory. The most powerful Cloud Master Hadrumal had seen in twenty generations had never known any such insecurity.
Sipping her wine, still standing by the table, Velindre stared out of the window across the roofs of the quadrangle and beyond to the sodden meadows with their dull green tussocky grass, the salt marshes beyond sere and dun. Winter wind tossed the dead reeds
this way and that and Velindre watched the eddies and flurries of the air only visible to those who shared her affinity.
Beyond the salt marshes there was the dull rolling grey of the sea that sent the ever-changing clouds and storms to break on the rocky shores of Hadrumal. Rising swells rimmed with white merged seamlessly into the leaden sky. She watched the damp air above the waves rising sluggishly, helpless to resist soaking up the seductive warmth brought up from the sun-kissed southern seas by the mysterious currents that threaded through the pathless ocean. The barely warmed air soared high into the uppermost reaches of the sky. Velindre watched the roiling mass cool and shed its load of moisture to swell the towering clouds. Perversely heavier now, the chilled air slid haphazardly down the sky, driving a rising wind to whip the waves to higher crests and steeper faces, until the swells collapsed in a crash of foam and fury. Above, the clouds darkened and the first flashes of lightning presaged the coming storm.
How often had she stood here to look out at the weather with Larissa? How long would it be before she could no longer recall Larissa’s face or voice? Velindre set down the glass of wine and bent to unlace her boots, kicking them away to land with a thud on the floorboards. Ely and Galen and Kalion and all the rest of them had better watch their step with Planir. The man was entitled to grieve, Archmage or not, and his liaison with Larissa had been no casual sport. Velindre knew that from the late-night confidences they had shared. Perhaps it wasn’t in her best interests to tie herself too closely to Kalion in particular. There had been precious little sign of Planir’s usual good humour when the Archmage had been dining in the common hall with the apprentices a few nights ago.
‘Velindre!’
The faint voice was so unexpected that she started, knocking into the table, sending wine spilling around the foot of the glass. She whirled around, long plait flying wide.
A disc of ochre light as big as the palm of her hand burned in the middle of the empty room. It grew, rimmed with searing scarlet brilliance.
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