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 acuity 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.
The room was entered, of course, through a Mage-door, which opened at a touch from Lord Lalkmair. Since the servants were to follow, he left it open, but when he closed it again, there would be no way out until he opened it again.
Of course, Idalia thought with mordant humor, all the sealed doors in a High Mages' house were said to open upon the Mage's death, so they did still have one way out.
Lord Lalkmair scooped books onto books and moved armfuls of scrolls out of the way, clearing himself a place to work. He opened one of the boxes on the table and drew out a sheaf of blank parchment and a thin silver rod: writing implements.
"Now, Lady Idalia. Let us speak of this spell."
* * * * *
"WHERE is my son?"
In the makeshift Council Chamber, the High Mages had been in the midst of dealing with a report from the City Watch when they felt the Wards rebuild themselves.
Every Mageborn in the City, down to the lowliest Student Apprentice, must have felt it. The very stones rang with a power Volpiril had never felt before in his life, as if the Pure Light itself had burst forth from the Sanctuary of the Temple. Not since the days of Camorin Andralan, First Arch-Mage, had a power so pure and strong been unleashed in the Great Circle.
Such power could not be summoned forth without… sacrifice.
Interrupting the report of Guard-Captain Madus in midsentence fires were burning in Bending Square and all across the Low Market, and due to the disruptions caused by the fall of the bell-towers, many of the wells were dry, and there were not enough Journeymen available to combat every fire in the City by magick Volpiril leaped to his feet and ran for the Council Chamber, his gray robes belling out behind him.
The spell had run its course. The golden doors, sealed by magick for the duration of the Working, opened at a touch. Clouds of incense rolled out into the hall. The Mages who had performed the Working stood or sat, or lay upon the marble floor, dazed. Volpiril had eyes for none of them.
In the center of the pattern, the Great Sword of the City still clutched in his outflung hand, lay Cilarnen.
His son. The jewel, the crowning pride of House Volpiril.
No Mage lived forever. What any man built, he built for the future, for his sons. All that Lord Volpiril had done, he had done for two things: for Armethalieh, and so that Cilarnen might rise to greater heights than he himself would ever reach.
He had seen all that snatched away when Lycaelon Light curse and blast his name! had told him that Cilarnen was a traitor. Had gloated over him, as though Lycaelon's two mongrel whelps had not both been Banished as Wildmages. Volpiril had cared about nothing after that.
When Cilarnen had returned, he had not cared that the boy had obviously been driven to the verge of madness by his unjust Banishment. Madness itself stalked the land, in the form of Demons. Destroy them, and there would be time to repair every harm the world had done to Volpiril's only heir. His Gift was intact, and he was still loyal to the City. Nothing else mattered, save surviving the day. To that end, Volpiril would conspire with Elves and even Wildmages, to save Armethalieh and his son.
But now…
He was so still.
He knelt beside Cilarnen. Stiffly. Old bones. Mageborn did not marry early, and Cilarnen was his youngest child. The only one who truly mattered.
Then the boy's lips parted in a sigh, and Volpiril knew that he still lived. He straightened.
"Send for the Healers!"
A few hours before sunset, the City opened her gates to their wounded.
During a lull in the fighting the City Militia rode out.
The battle ebbed and flowed like the tide of a great ocean. Not every unit was engaged at once. The line stretched for miles; the thousands of Elves, Centaurs, and Men of the Allied Army slowly being winnowed by the onslaught of the Enemy. At least the forces in the field against them could be killed, and Kellen's troops killed them. But each death came at a high price.
The Allies gained ground, forcing the line forward, into the forest. Yet they dared not advance as far as the Demons might allow them to. Their purpose was to protect Armethalieh, not to follow the retreating Demon army. And so Kellen held his forces back, kept them on the killing ground hour after hour, as monsters for which he had no name threw themselves against his lines.
The Militia who rode out through the Lesser Gate were only a few hundred men. Toy soldiers in toy armor, on horses that looked like scrubs next to the Elvenbred beasts. But their captain, Amrun, had brought fresh news from the City.
The Wards were back in place, and the High Council was working closely with Cilarnen, Jermayan, and Idalia. Amrun knew nothing more, save that Lord Volpiril had ordered them to aid the army and he had brought a message from Idalia.
Somehow, she had convinced the High Council to open the City to the Allied Army's wounded.
When had Lord Volpiril been returned to the Council?
Kellen didn't care. All that mattered was that he could shelter the injured in a place where the Enemy couldn't reach them. What the City would make of the influx of Centaurs, Elves, and Mountainborn he neither knew nor at the moment cared.
But Vestakia could not join them. The Wards would permit it, but the people within…