* * * * *
THE long and elaborate ritual was completed without a flaw. The Magewardens were all young and ambitious; they saw Anigrel as the very embodiment of Armethalieh, and were personally loyal to him. Through him, they had gained power and rank that would not otherwise have been theirs for years, if not decades, and all of them were ambitious enough to do nothing to risk it. Anigrel had chosen and promoted his Magewardens on the basis of ability alone, advancing them through the ranks far more quickly than tradition would have permitted. The men who stood in the Circle with him, who carried out his orders and spied upon their fellow Mageborn "for the good of the City," would have been mere Journeymen without his patronage, and every one of them knew it. The black badge and tabard of the Magewardens allowed them equality with the most exalted of the High Mages equality, and even superiority, for no High Mage was safe from what Anigrel's Magewardens might report to him under the veil of strict secrecy and anonymity, and every one of the Mageborn knew it.
When Anigrel left the Circle, Lycaelon was waiting for him.
As always, the Arch-Mage wore his gray Mage-robes, with their embroidered tabard of rank over them. One who was experienced in Mage-heraldry could read from the symbols upon a Mage's tabard not only a Mage's House and lineage for the tabard was naturally embroidered in the Household Colors of that Mage but his rank, his position, and the Great Workings to which he had been called. A Mage's tabard held the entire history of his life in service to the City, and it was a constantly-changing tapestry, for those who had the eyes to see.
Though Lycaelon had other garments, of course, Anigrel had rarely seen him wear them. Lycaelon's identification with the City and his Art was utterly complete. Long ago, the distinction between the private man and the Arch-Mage of Armethalieh had been utterly forgotten. Lycaelon Tavadon had no private life.
That Lycaelon should be up and about at this hour was in and of itself not unusual, for the High Mages were as much creatures of nighttime as daylight. Spells might be cast at any bell, but the Great Workings were best accomplished during the bells of night, when the City was at its quietest, and the intrusive clamor of waking minds was stilled by sleep.
But the peculiar look of worry upon the Arch-Mage's face was something Anigrel was not used to seeing. It was no part of Anigrel's plans that his adoptive father should find things to worry about. Anigrel spent precious bells of his time ensuring that Lycaelon believed that the City was running more smoothly than it ever had before. What had the old man found to worry him now?
"My son," Lycaelon said, "I know you are weary, but I felt you should know of this at once before the Council session tomorrow."
"Later today, surely?" Anigrel said, with a gentle smile, for the Council House rang all the bells of the night, and he had heard First Dawn Bells just as the ritual ended.
"The Council will know you have been in the Circle tonight, and so will wait until Noontide Bells to convene, but I had thought it best to prepare you now. There has been another attack upon Nerendale. The farmers there petition to leave their village, and move closer to the City."
"The Wildmages grow bolder, Father," Anigrel murmured, putting a soothing hand upon Lycaelon's arm.
Of course he'd already known about this. His spies were better than Lycaelon's or anyone else in the City's. The trouble was, Lycaelon should not have known about it at all.
"Tell me everything, Father," Anigrel said soothingly.
* * * * *
NERENDALE was at the far edge of the Delfier Valley. Before Lord Volpiril's disastrous decision to reduce the bounds of the City lands, it had been a large and prosperous farming community, one which had also contained a trading outpost since the decision to bar the Mountain Traders from the City over a decade before. Since that time, the trading caravans from the High Reaches came only as far as Nerendale to exchange their freight of furs and cloth and medicinals and sometimes even precious Elvenware for grain, cloth, produce, and Golden Suns.
But hard times had come to Nerendale, as to all the villages that had once prospered under Armethalieh's care, and now, for the first time in centuries, the farmers suffered disaster after disaster, barely understanding why.
When the Bounds had been restricted, at first they had rejoiced at the cessation of tithe and tax. But then torrential autumn rains had fallen heavily upon all the villages of the valley, destroying the crops in the field and bringing famine to the land. The Bounds had lately been restored and with them, the taxes and tithes but too late to save this year's crops.
And now a new scourge had come to trouble the farmers of the Delfier Valley: Not only their herdbeasts, but their people were vanishing mysteriously in ones and twos, always without a trace. It was always the outlying villages such as Nerendale.
So far.
As a Trading Post, Nerendale naturally had a High Mage in residence, for there was no other way to determine the suitability of the trade goods offered by the Mountainfolk. This year, Lycaelon had taken the unprecedented step of sending High Mages to many of the other villages as well, for without doing so, it might have been impossible to bring the villagers to heel in the spring, and without the fruits of their labors, Armethalieh would begin to starve in earnest.
The High Mages, naturally, had been the first to vanish when the raids on the villages began, for as Anigrel knew though Lycaelon certainly did not it was the servants of Anigrel's Dark Lady, not Wildmage terrorists, who raided the villages of the Delfier Valley.
The time was near when the Endarkened would be able to walk openly through the streets of Armethalieh, but so that time could come, the High Mages must be utterly convinced that the Wildmages and the Other Races were a great threat, and one that drew ever closer with each passing day.
Anigrel listened intently as Lycaelon told him the news from Nerendale of the inhabitants of an outlying house taken in the night; the terror of the village headman and nodded, as if he were weighing the matter carefully.
"Truly, Father, I believe you are right. The farmers must leave Nerendale. It would be cruel to ask them to remain when they are so frightened. We will show the people we can be merciful as well as just. Perhaps the Council will agree to send the Militia to escort them to the nearest suitable village, so that they can feel perfectly safe. I will go myself."
"No no, you must not do that," Lycaelon said, shaking his head. "You are far too selfless what if the Wildmages lurking in the forest should manage to bespell you? You must think of the City! Armethalieh needs you more than ever far more than a few farmers ever could. No, no, my son. Your place is here. I will insist that the Council send the Militia, and I will have them choose suitable Journeymen to accompany our soldiers. It is a fine idea to show how Armethalieh cares for her dependents, providing it is not taken to extremes."
Anigrel forced himself not to smile. Lycaelon had responded just as Anigrel had known that he would. And Lycaelon would always remember that Anigrel had offered to go to Nerendale.
"Of course, Father. Your wisdom is an inspiration to me," Anigrel said, lowering 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, not 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 uninitiatedand 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.