“Of course, Father. Your wisdom is an inspiration to me,” Anigrel said, lowing his eyes modestly.
And when his friends had feasted upon all of them—villagers, Militia, and Mages all—Lycaelon would be nearly ready to listen to his suggestion of … an alliance.
HE saw everything.
He’d had to make do with a bowl of water instead of the sphere of flawless crystal the High Mages normally used for the work of seeing things from afar, but the books were clear. Any transparent substance, they said, could be used as a medium to summon the Visions of Far-Seeing.
Cilarnen knew, of course, that none of the Wildmages had been able to see into the City, but they always spoke of the Wild Magic as though it were a living thing—like Anganil, or Shalkan, or the Salamander that had come to his call. If that were so, then the Wild Magic could decide whether or not to do what they asked it to do.
The High Magick was not like that. It was without mind and will. It was a tool, nothing more—an extension of the High Mage’s mind and will. There was not the slightest possibility that a spell of the High Magick could ever control its caster, nor require him to do something against his wishes.
And therefore—so Cilarnen believed—the wards They had put in place against the Wild Magic would be useless against the spells of a High Mage.
And he was right.
Two days after he had linked his power to that of the Elven Lands, Cilarnen was ready to cast the Spell of Far-Seeing.
He had spent the previous day preparing a number of useful spells so that they could be triggered with nothing more than a single keyword—High Magick was a slow and painstaking process, though it could be made to seem rapid to the uninitiated—and practicing others. The last time he had cast Mageshield he had done so out of desperation and in a blind panic; thank the Light—and Shalkan and Ancaladar—it had held, or they would certainly all be dead now, and the Allies would know nothing about Anigrel and his plans to destroy the City.
Now he practiced it carefully, building it up layer by layer, just as Master Tocsel had taught him, until he was satisfied that his old facility with it had returned. A student first learned the glyphs by studying them in a text, then to draw them upon the air with a wand. Next came the spells of wand and glyph, and the summoning of Fire, which was essentially a matter of visualizing the proper glyph, though that almost always came as a surprise to students when it was explained to them.
The second Spell of Visualization every Student learned was Mageshield: Those who did not learn it did not live to learn any other spells.
Once Cilarnen was satisfied that he could once more Shield himself instantly against any attack, he was ready to look into the City.
He prepared his working area carefully, making it as much like a High Mage’s workspace as he could, given his circumstances; lit the lamps on his newly-erected Altar to the Light and recited the whole of the Litany of the Light, then prepared his Circle. That was easy enough, as the Salamander’s visit had left a geometrically-perfect ring melted deeply into the floor of the ice-pavilion.
The Elvenware bowl he placed upon his worktable was as white as the snow that covered the ground outside, and so delicate that it was a miracle of a sort that it had survived unbroken through all of its journeys, for Isinwen, who had provided it for him several sennights ago, had said it had come all the way from a city called Sentarshadeen, from the workshop of an Elf named Iletel, who was a master craftsman among their kind.
Gazing upon its simple beauty, Cilarnen could well believe that. Only the wealthiest High Mage in Armethalieh could afford to purchase such a substantial piece of Elvenware to grace his collection, and he had never seen any as fine.
You know, I never thought of it before, and I would certainly never have dared to question Father about it, but… we despise them as a mockery of the Light and bar them from even setting foot within the City, yet the Elves make some of our most eagerly-desired trade-goods. There’s not a Mageborn family in the City that doesn’t have at least one piece of Elvenware on display.
Well, he shouldn’t be surprised. Kellen had told him that Armethalieh was built upon a firm foundation of hypocrisy.
But now it was time to clear his mind for the spell he wished to cast.
He picked up a homely wooden jug and poured the bowl full of melted snow. He could only tell it was filling by the glints of light on the surface of the water, sliding and breaking apart as the water rocked and jounced off the walls of the bowl. Once it was full, the surface slowly stilled, the waves slowing and disappearing, the bubbles in the water rising to the top. When the water was completely still, the bowl looked in fact as if it truly was filled with the finest crystal.
Cilarnen took his wand into his right hand, and sketched the first of the glyphs of the spell.
When the spell was complete, the glyph doubled itself, one copy of it rushing through the wall of the ice-pavilion, speeding in the direction of Armethalieh, while the other half continued to hang above the Elvenware bowl. In a few moments more the absent copy reached its destination, and the glyph blurred into images. The images did not appear in the bowl, as Cilarnen had vaguely expected, but above it, like mist hanging above a lake.
As he had planned, Cilarnen was looking upon the Council Chamber. The High Mages had no notion they were being watched: The copy of the glyph that was there was heavily Warded, wrapped in every spell Cilarnen could devise.
And if someone did happen to notice it … well! It certainly wasn’t a Wildmage spell. It was nothing more—or less—than their own High Magick. He thought they’d be so busy accusing one another of treachery that he’d have plenty of time to cover his tracks.
And after looking through Idalia’s eyes at what Armethalieh had become, he wanted to see for himself how the City was being run these days.
As he had hoped, the Council was in session, but only seven of the thirteen seats were filled. Cilarnen recognized every face from the old days but one; the slender blond young man who sat in Cilarnen’s father’s own seat. That one he only knew from Idalia’s spell. Anigrel the secret Darkmage: the Mage with a Commons-born father who had been Lycaelon’s secretary and Kellen’s tutor. Lycaelon thought his own son a traitor, but his adopted son had betrayed the Tavadons more terribly than the Arch-Mage could possibly imagine.
He tried to remember what he could about the political alliances among the Council. His father had certainly spoken to him of them often enough, preparing him for the day when he might join them, and would certainly serve them.
Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon. He looked far older than he had the last time Cilanen had seen him, on the night of his Banishing, as if all the cares of the City weighed deeply on his shoulders these days. Cilarnen felt a pang of pity for him. It must be hard beyond words to have lost both his children to what he must believe was something worse than Demon magic, and now be facing the worst threat to face his beloved City since the days the first stones of her walls were laid. And he did not even suspect that the worst threat of all sat beside him in his own Council chambers, sat at his table in his own home… .
Cilarnen turned his attentions to the others.
High Mage Harith had always been Lycaelon’s political crony; he would support any decision the Arch-Mage made without bothering to think for himself. Harith had no hope of ascending to the ultimate power himself; he was an old man, and had already climbed as high as he would ever reach. He would die where he was, in service to the City and the Arch-Mage.
High Mage Ganaret was ambitious, but not for himself precisely; Ganaret was always willing to endorse any project that involved exalting the power and prestige of the Mageborn, even at the expense of the other classes who shared the City with them—and so, Cilarnen’s father had said, Ganaret was easily swayed in some matters.
High Mage Lorins he knew very little of, save that his father had always said that he was ambitious, and sought to become Arch-Mage himself.
High Mage Nagid; an excellent Mage
, but interested most of all in his own comfort. That made him one of the most conservative voices on the Council, unwilling to consider change unless it was forced upon him. That, too, Lord Volpiril had said, could be useful when properly manipulated.
High Mage Dagan. Dagan was old and fearful, and Cilarnen saw marks of strain and sleeplessness etched into the old man’s face. It was odd to think of any of the High Council as being old men, though no one ascended to that post except after attaining the rank of High Mage and devoting years of service to the City in addition before being proposed for membership when a vacancy arose. And in normal times, vacancies on the Mage Council were rare things.
Anigrel Tavadon.
In the presence of so many elderly High Mages, his youth stood out like a beacon; he was less than twice Cilarnen’s own age. He had used the High Mages’ fear, their love for the City and their desire to protect Armethalieh, to set himself on the High Council. To destroy it from within.
Just as—in the disguise of “Master Raellan”—he had used Cilarnen’s own love for the City to lead him into the pretend conspiracy that had begun it all.
Cilarnen listened as the High Council debated a measure to send the Militia to Nerendale to evacuate the village’s survivors and settle them among the inhabitants of the nearby villages such as Greenmile, Overlook, and Long Walk. The reason, Cilarnen inferred from the Council’s long-winded speeches, was that the village’s inhabitants were too fearful of the continuing murderous raids of the Wildmages on Nerendale to remain where they were.
That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard! Certainly a Wildmage would kill someone—Kellen has killed lots of people, and he’s a Wildmage—but not innocent helpless farmers! Someone else is doing this, and I’m sure Anigrel knows who.
Cilarnen made certain to note the time that the Council said that the Militia would arrive at Nerendale. He was almost certain he knew who was truly behind the attacks, but it wouldn’t hurt to see if he could get proof.
The Council then began a long debate on the structuring of a new series of taxes on magick. Cilarnen doubted he could learn much more here—and besides, there were other places he wanted to see in the City. And he didn’t want to press his luck by remaining in the Council Chamber too long. He was fairly certain they’d know someone had been spying on them. What he was counting on was that they wouldn’t know who it had been.
HOUSE Volpiril still looked the same. The green-and-copper banners—their house colors—still hung on either side of the front door; the forbidding statues of snarling winged lions that flanked the walkway out by the street—all were as familiar to Cilarnen as the fingers of his own hand. As he regarded the front door, Vedhin, their formidably-correct butler, opened it, ushering his mother, two sisters, several maids, and a phalanx of menservants through the portal. Since it was his mother and his sisters, Cilarnen had literally no notion whatsoever where they might be going, as well as the feeling that it might be impertinent to try to find out.
He sent the Glyph of Far-Seeing on into the house.
Here, too, nothing had changed—but then, each piece of furniture had been in precisely these positions in his grandfather’s day, and if he had inherited, Cilarnen would never have thought of changing a single thing.
He had to force himself to follow the stairs to his father’s study.
Setarion Volpiril sat behind his desk, writing a letter. Cilarnen felt a clutch of joy at the sight of his father, and firmly suppressed it; strong emotion of any kind would break the spell.
His father seemed to have aged decades since the last time Cilarnen had seen him; the auburn hair of the Volpiril line had paled and was thickly streaked with gray, and new lines etched his cheeks. Even more shocking than this, Lord Volpiril’s gray Mage-robes were flung carelessly over a chair—ready to be donned at need, it was true, but Cilarnen beheld his father in ordinary clothing such as any wealthy fashionable noble might own. He couldn’t remember seeing his father in anything but his gray Mage-robes and rank-tabard before, at any time in his entire life.
It gave Cilarnen an odd feeling, as if his father’s life must have changed as profoundly as Cilarnen’s own.
But Lord Volpiril was alive. Alive! Idalia had sworn to Cilarnen that he was, that Anigrel had lied to Cilarnen in the punishment cells, but all along Cilarnen had never quite dared to believe it. In this moment it didn’t matter to him that he’d been condemned as a traitor and that his father surely believed in his guilt. They were both alive, and while that was true, there was a chance for him to let his father know the truth.
Strong emotion, as Cilarnen well knew, was the enemy of magick. The intense joy he could no longer suppress upon seeing his father disrupted the spell at last. The images faded until once more Cilarnen was staring at nothing more than a bowl of water.
He drew a deep breath. It didn’t matter. He’d learned what he needed to know.
And in two days, he would see what there was to see at Nerendale.
TWO days later he cast the spell again.
This time it was much harder to find what he sought.
He’d never been to Nerendale, and knew nobody who had. If his life depended on locating it, he only hoped he’d have plenty of time to look.
But today he had one particular advantage, because he’d heard in the Council Chamber that the Mage Council intended to send High Mages with the Militia.
One of the things the High Mages were asked to do most often in the City was to find lost objects: a necklace, a key, a favorite pair of gloves. Almost always the object could be found using an Affinity spell, since the object and the person seeking it would have been in close contact very recently. But they were also sometimes asked to find objects for which an Affinity spell would not work: a will, a lost pet, a family heirloom only rumored to exist. For such circumstances, one of the High Magick’s many different Seeking spells must be used.
What Cilarnen intended to do now was to Seek all High Mages outside of Armethalieh, using himself as an example of what he wanted the spell to find. It should lead him directly to Nerendale.
If it led him to some other group of High Mages, well, that at least would be interesting. Very interesting indeed …
THE wondertales that were popular within the City created images of the farming villages that were wholly unlike real life. The “cottages” the wondertales described were as spacious as a merchant’s townhouse; the work of tilling and planting and harvest was neither arduous nor time-consuming.
Having lived for several moonturns in Stonehearth, Cilarnen knew what a farming village looked like; and though he had not been there in spring to see the planting begin, he had no doubt that the work was even more strenuous than the winter’s work he had been doing in the stables.
He was surprised at how very much Nerendale resembled Stonehearth, though the one was a human village under the protection of the City of a Thousand Bells, and the other was a city inhabited only by Centaurs in the midst of the Wild Lands. In fact, Stonehearth was by far the more sophisticated of the two, with two-story houses, a village wall, stone-paved streets, and, Cilarnen suspected, other refinements that Nerendale did not have.
But the village square of Nerendale looked essentially the same as that of Stonehearth, save for the fact that Stonehearth did not have a Temple of the Light. There was even a well in just about the same place, and, standing around the well, two score very bored looking members of Armethalieh’s Militia, mounted on fine chestnut horses.
Or at least Cilarnen would have thought them fine once, before he had seen Elvenbred animals. Now they seemed to him to be weedy, narrow-chested, second-rate animals, without either style or stamina.
The two Mages’ animals were no better. Both were riding grays—undoubtedly borrowed from their fathers’ stables, since journeyman Mages such as they both were certainly were not keeping horses of their own. The grays were skittish high-bred young animals who wanted nothing to do with the Militia’s chestnuts, even as
tired out as they must be after the long ride here from the City, and so far the Mages had not bothered to set a spell of Control over them.
He had not thought he would recognize either of the Mages, but he did. One of them was Juvalira, a Senior Journeyman with whom Cilarnen had served during his Apprenticeship. The other was Juvalira’s usual partner, Thekinalo. Both were of middle-level Mage families, without close ties to the Council, as Cilarnen remembered, though Thekinalo had a cousin who was secretary to Lord Harith. Both had older brothers who were Undermages—Juvalira’s brother was an Apprentice Undermage; Thekinalo’s brother had attained Mastership the last Cilarnen had heard—and both of whom served on two of the many Councils that kept the City running smoothly. Juvalira’s brother was Assistant Private Secretary to the Master of the Vermin Control Board for the Seventh District, and Thekinalo’s brother served on the Water Purification Council. Both families were realistic, and neither looked as high for their sons as a seat on the High Council. Undoubtedly Juvalira and Thekinalo expected to follow their brothers into lives of service to the City, marry well when the time came, and bring honor to their respective family names.
And they were both going to die today.
Cilarnen listened as the Captain of the Militia troop argued with the village elders. The Captain wanted to leave immediately. The headman, who had petitioned for help but had received no advance word of their arrival, wanted time for everyone to gather their possessions for the journey. And everyone was gathered around the Captain, shouting about how vital those possessions were—everything from skeps of dormant bees, to foraging pigs, to scattered flocks of sheep and goats, to lost chickens.
A year ago, Cilarnen would have just thought it was funny.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 182