To Light A Candle ou(tom-2 Page 29

  —«♦»—

  AT Dawn Bells, Lycaelon was given the exquisite pleasure of entertaining Lords Isas and Breulin in his Council chambers.

  Both Mages, of course, already knew most of the details of the plot and the arrests that had occurred at Midnight Bells. If servants’ gossip ran swiftly in the City of a Thousand Bells, then gossip among the Mageborn ran swifter, and Lycaelon had seen no reason to stifle it. He had known that within a bell at most, the Undermages who had arrested the boys would have seen to it that the details of the matter would reach their families, whether out of spite or from a hope of currying later favor. He had entertained himself with imagining the petitions that must be flying back and forth between the families involved and their High Mage heads—Isas and Breulin—as everyone scrabbled for information that simply wasn’t available.

  Isas had always been something of an ally to him, but even Isas had not voted with him against Volpiril in the end, and he would pay for that now. And Breulin had always opposed his policies. It would be well to be rid of both of them.

  He saw Isas first. The aged High Mage was escorted into Lycaelon’s chambers by the same Stone Golems who had summoned him from his house. The old man was quivering with such indignation that for a moment Lycaelon was sure Isas was going to drop dead on the spot and save him a great deal of trouble.

  “Lord Isas,” he said cordially, “do sit down. You really don’t look well.” Light forgive him, but he was enjoying this!

  “Lord Lycaelon—what is the meaning of this?” Isas demanded.

  “Oh, I think you already know,” Lycaelon said, almost purring. “The question is, what are you prepared to do about it?”

  —«♦»—

  THE meeting went very much as Lycaelon intended it to. Jorade was Lord Isas’s only possible heir; to keep the boy whole and unmarred Isas was willing to give up his seat on the Council and take the same oath Lord Volpiril had.

  He was, in fact, absurdly grateful to do so.

  “My dear Lord Lycaelon—I had no idea—no idea…” he quavered.

  The elderly Lord Isas seemed to have aged a decade from the moment he had entered Lycaelon’s chambers. His skin had taken on a greyish tinge and his breathing was harsh.

  “Did I not warn you—all of you—what Volpiril was, time and again?” Lycaelon’s voice was stern. “Yet none of you listened—even you, Lawell, and I thought you my friend.”

  “I was—I meant to be—” Isas protested. “But—after Kellen—all of us thought…”

  Lycaelon’s face froze at the mention of the forbidden name. Yet, he consoled himself, he had a new son now. A better son. A son who would be all to him that The Outlaw had never been.

  “You thought I had let my emotions overmaster me,” Lycaelon said heavily. “And now you see that I acted—then, as always—for the good of the City.”

  “Yes,” Lord Isas said, bowing his head humbly. “I see that now, Lycaelon.”

  “Go home, Lawell,” Lycaelon said, almost kindly. “I will send Jorade to you when the mindhealers have finished with him. Treat him well. A true son is a precious gift.” He reached for the bellpull. “Let me summon a servant to escort you home. You really don’t look at all well.”

  —«♦»—

  THE meeting with Lord Breulin went a bit more awkwardly. Breulin had always been his opponent in Council; he was a man in the vigor of his prime, ambitious enough to wish to become Arch-Mage himself someday.

  But Lycaelon was firm.

  “My lord, if you wish to see the matter come to a public trial before the Council, that is, of course, your right. But I and many others find it very difficult to imagine how a handful of children conceived of a plan of this nature by themselves. The question that must be asked—and will be asked, frequently, in the moonturns to come, should you force me to put the matter of young Geont before the Council—is not only where they came by their peculiar notions and the means to carry them out, but who would benefit from a, shall we say, radical rearrangement of the Council?” Lycaelon said.

  Lord Breulin regarded him warily, obviously not liking the note of confidence he heard in Lord Lycaelon’s voice.

  “May I direct your attention to the names of the conspirators?” the Arch-Mage continued. “Isas—Pentres—Lalkmair—Rolfort—Ogregance—Volpiril. Isas, Lalkmair, Rolfort, and Ogregance we can dismiss at once. Three of them have no Council ties, and all the world knows that Isas is—was—my supporter. He could hardly be expected to see benefit from the overthrow of the Council. This leaves Volpiril and Pentres, and House Pentres is a Breulin supporter, its fortunes tied to those of your House, my lord Breulin.

  “How odd. The world believes Volpiril and Breulin to be at odds. Certainly the two of you seemed to be in opposition in Council—except when you were opposing me. How singular to find Volpiril’s heir and Breulin’s dependent so closely linked. Perhaps you believed you could share the spoils. Or perhaps you intended a further betrayal of one another?”

  Lord Breulin’s face had turned a deep shade of maroon, making his stiff silver beard stand out even more brightly against his skin.

  “You have no proof of that,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I have Lord Volpiril’s resignation from the Council,” Lycaelon said simply. “Lord Isas has also resigned.”

  Breulin’s eyes narrowed. Resignation—for a man as ambitious as Lord Volpiril—was as good as a confession of guilt, yet how could it be otherwise, when Volpiril’s heir was the acknowledged ringleader of the young conspirators? Lycaelon needed no spell of Mindhearing to know Lord Breulin’s thoughts. They were plain upon the man’s face, as at last he awoke to his own peril.

  “What will be done with the boys?” Breulin asked, after a long pause.

  “For some, Banishment,” Lycaelon said. “As soon as the Hunt has space to run free once more.”

  “And Geont?” Breulin said when Lycaelon said nothing further.

  “In the end, his fate is in your hands, Lord Breulin,” Lycaelon answered. “As is my understanding of the degree of your involvement.”

  —«♦»—

  THOUGH the matter was an open secret, it was not yet a public scandal—and perhaps Lord Breulin’s conscience was not quite as clear as he wished it to be. Certainly, if he allowed Geont Pentres’s Gift to be taken from him, Lord Breulin would make enemies of those who had been his allies and supporters. And in the end, whether the hearings proved him culpable or innocent, he would still be tainted by the shadow of conspiracy.

  So to avoid the shame and publicity of a Council inquiry—and incidentally to save himself from the humiliation of giving up a kinsman to the Excision of his Magegift—Lord Breulin, too, resigned his position on the Council and gave his binding oath before the second bells of day rang out through the City.

  Chapter Nine The Council of Fear

  AT FIRST MORNING Bells, the High Council convened in special session.

  The Council chamber was one of the most imposing rooms in all the Golden City, though few but Mages and Outlanders ever saw it. It had been built by Magecraft, as had been the whole of the Council House, and its unadorned walls of white marble gleamed, polished to mirror-perfection, their flawless curves unrelieved by any ornament save two golden doors opposite sides of the circular chamber. Each door was wrought with the symbol of the Eternal Light in gleaming high relief, so that the planes and angles of their exquisite surfaces glittered as if they were aflame.

  If the walls were stark and unornamented, the floor was their opposite. It held a complex pattern of black and white marble. Though it might seem to be nothing more than an overelaborate decorative pattern, it was in fact a series of keys that allowed Adepts to keep their proper places during the nighttime Workings, for the Council chamber was also the Temple where the Great Circles were held for the Mage’s nighttime Workings.

  At one end of the Council chamber stood a curved judicial bench twice the height of a tall man, as black as the wall behind it was wh
ite. It was here that the High Council sat to pass judgment upon every aspect of life in Armethalieh. The room had been designed by the ancient Mages who had wrought it to overawe the mind and numb the spirit. Even the Mages who worked here daily were not immune to its effects, and that was as it should be. Let all who entered here know that the individual was as nothing, and the City was all.

  The Arch-Mage’s thronelike chair was in the center of the bench, with six lesser seats on either side. Until today, every seat had always been filled.

  The remaining Mages—Meron, Perizel, Lorins, Arance, Ganaret, Nagid, Vilmos, Dagan, and Harith—entered the chamber where Lycaelon was already seated. When the nine of them had taken their places, they looked with various degrees of consternation at the three empty seats.

  “Breulin, Isas, and Volpiril have resigned from the Council, for reasons of which I think all of you are aware,” Lycaelon said. His voice filled the chamber, resonating from the polished marble walls. “This special session will be devoted to dealing with the matter of the traitors, discovering the extent of the corruption, and repairing the harm that they have done to the City. But first, there is the matter of filling the vacancies created.”

  There was a stir of anticipation in the room. Vacancies on the High Council were rare. For there to be three at once was unprecedented, and every man in the room had his own candidates to fill the vacant chairs.

  But Lycaelon was not finished speaking.

  “I propose to you my own candidate, Chired Anigrel, who is to become my son and the heir of my House this Light’s Day. Many of you will know him as my private secretary, but in these past moonturns he has done far more for the good of the City than scribing mere paperwork. It was through Undermage Anigrel’s tireless work that the traitors were uncovered and the conspiracy disarmed before the threat could grow. He has demonstrated an uncommon devotion and loyalty to the City, as well as a mastery of the Art that much exceeds his rank. I open the matter now for discussion before I call the vote.”

  “Discussion… ? But Arch-Mage, surely you do not expect us to vote upon the matter today?” Lord Dagan asked, almost timidly.

  “My lords,” Lycaelon said ponderously, “I wish from the bottom of my heart that we had the leisure to consider the matter in our usual deliberate fashion. But the empty seats among us are proof enough that this cannot be. For the other vacancies, yes, of course, we shall take as much time as you like. But in light of the service he has already rendered to the City, I do not wish to deprive us of Anigrel’s sapient counsel for another moment. Providing, always, that we are all in agreement.”

  “My lord Lycaelon, may I be the first to offer you congratulations upon your heir? May the Light defend him in all his works. It is heartening to hear good news when the shadows seem to gather on every side,” Lord Harith said.

  “I shall convey your congratulations to my son,” Lycaelon said, bowing his head. “We are both gratified.” He smiled inwardly. Harith had obviously decided which way the hare would jump and was anxious to assure Lycaelon that he would continue to support him.

  Perizel leaned forward, signaling his intention to speak next. The man was a consummate political animal, and cloaked his ambition in a punctilious insistence on the observance of proper form. If Lord Perizel disliked an idea, he could delay it for sennights by debating every detail of the form of its presentation.

  “My lord Arch-Mage. Without in any way speaking to Undermage Anigrel’s character or other qualifications to join our Council, I must raise a point of order regarding his possible appointment. As you yourself have remarked, his rank is but that of Undermage. Yet one must be of the rank of High Mage to serve upon the Council. Is that not so?”

  There was a murmur of agreement—not unmixed with relief in a few cases—as the remaining members of the Council conferred among themselves, whispering and nodding their heads. Lycaelon allowed it to continue for a few moments before speaking again.

  “My lords, I believe you will find there is precedent for a Mage of lesser rank serving upon the High Council, should his other qualifications be exceptional. I direct your attention to the case of Undermage Camorin in the 427th year of the City—and your ancestor, Lord Arance, who served with distinction upon the Council beginning in Year 719, though he had not yet attained the distinction of High Mage. And should Lord Anigrel be permitted to test for advancement upon an accelerated schedule, then this consideration would certainly be set at rest.”

  Lord Perizel regarded the Arch-Mage for a moment, then smiled faintly and nodded, settling back in his chair. “You are correct, Lord Arch-Mage. There is precedent. I withdraw my objection.”

  Lycaelon glanced around at the other Mages. Their faces were studiously blank, but there was no way they could argue with facts. Both Mage Camorin and Arance’s ancestor had been of lesser rank when they served upon the Council—not only had Anigrel found the citations for him to strengthen his argument, but every man here should recall the cases from History of the City under Mage Hendassar.

  —«♦»—

  THOUGH the Mages continued to debate—with Lycaelon and with each other—Lycaelon could tell that their words were merely a cloak for the furious debate each Mage was having with himself.

  What was Lycaelon’s real motive in proposing Anigrel for the Council? Was there more to be gained by supporting Anigrel’s nomination or by blocking it?

  Every Mage here knew about the arrests and the resignations that had followed them, of course. All of them were shocked—as Lycaelon had been—that such a thing could happen, and fearful of how far the treasonous taint might have spread. If Mageborn could conspire against Mageborn, then no one was safe.

  Further, each one of them—none better, in all the City—had seen what disaster their ill-considered support of Lord Volpiril’s plans had led them into. Now it seemed that Lycaelon—and Anigrel—were poised to lead them out of it, to undo as much of the damage as could be repaired, and take steps to ensure that the rest was handled suitably.

  “How did Lord Anigrel discover the traitors?” Lord Ganaret asked, after a full bell of debate.

  Lycaelon smiled sadly, and spread his hands wide. “My lord, it is with regret that I cannot disclose Lord Anigrel’s methods as yet. You see, I am not entirely certain that the entire cabal has been uprooted.”

  That got their attention! Nine pairs of eyes focused on Lycaelon’s face, and the Council chamber was suddenly silent.

  “But… they were arrested…” Lord Ganaret gasped.

  “Boys making umbrastone,” Lycaelon said, scoffing. “Terrible in itself—but my lords, who told them to make it? Who put that idea into their unformed minds? Who nurtured them in rebellion and then covered his tracks so flawlessly? Could mere boys have come up with such notions on their own? Could they have known where to find the proscribed instructions so easily, had they not had experienced help? I have prayed—I have hoped—there was another answer. But I can find none.”

  “Because there is none.” Ancient Lord Vilmos spoke, his quavering voice cracking with certainty. “Lord Lycaelon, you are right. This conspiracy touches us all. We must have Lord Anigrel on the Council.”

  “Yes—appoint Anigrel to the Council and make the City safe again,” Harith said. “Discover the traitors and Banish them!”

  Lycaelon allowed himself a small nod of approval. Clever of Harith not to be the first to suggest Anigrel’s appointment. That would look too pointed.

  “My lords, do you wish time for further discussion?” Lycaelon asked. “Or will you vote now?”

  One by one, the assembled High Mages placed both hands, palm down, upon the table before them, each signifying his readiness to vote.

  “Then I call the vote,” Lycaelon said. “Admission of Undermage Anigrel to the High Council.” He raised his hand, palm out. Assent.

  One by one, the nine remaining High Mages copied his gesture.

  The vote was unanimous.

  Anigrel was to be admitted to the High
Council.

  —«♦»—

  IN the antechamber, Anigrel waited. It took all of his skill at concealing his true nature to disguise his nervousness now. Lycaelon was a master of manipulation, and after the events of the night before, the Council was a pack of nervous frightened old men begging for decisive leadership, whether they knew it or not. But it was still far from certain which way the vote would go.

  Either way would serve his—and his Dark Lady’s—ultimate goal, of course.

  If the Council accepted him, he would have a direct voice in the ruling of Armethalieh. He would be able to put forward his ideas himself, and not have to manipulate Lycaelon into coming up with them.

  If the Council rejected him, it would enrage Lycaelon, and make the Arch-Mage that much easier for Anigrel to manipulate. But the son of Torbet Anigrel, himself the son of a tradesman—Torbet Anigrel, who had died in obscurity, spurned with contempt by the highborn, pure-blooded Mageborn—would burn with hatred and humiliation at the rejection. Not even his adoption into House Tavadon would salve that wound.