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That was only the beginning. What about the lore of his own people? Would there be any way to protect the knowledge and wisdom laid down through many generations, and preserve it for any Wizards of the future who might survive the evil times ahead? He had pondered long and hard, trying to think of ways to minimise the damage, until finally he had the good, and long overdue, idea of stretching his promise to the other leaders and involving Sharalind in his deliberations. In truth, he had no choice. His consort, determined to get to the root of the sleepless nights he fondly imagined he’d been hiding from her, his constantly worried expression and his sudden attacks of absent-mindedness, had bearded him in his tower late one night, put a locking spell on the door, poured wine for them both and had refused to let him leave until he told her what was troubling him, giving him no quarter until he finally surrendered.

On hearing his tale, Sharalind had put down her cup on the overloaded desk and crossed to the fireplace, where she’d stood gazing into the flames for so long that Cyran began to be concerned. He looked at her dear face, which others seemed to find so stern, her untidy robes and the tousled brown curls escaping from their knot at the back of her head. What was she thinking? He had never managed to work that out in all their years together. All he could do was wait patiently for her response. ‘I wish you’d told me this before,’ she said eventually.

‘I wish I had, too. And I would have, but the other Magefolk leaders made me promise not to tell anyone. Forgive me, love.’

She turned to him with a wry smile and took his hand. ‘Ah, but there lies your biggest mistake: telling the other leaders before you had told me. You idiot. Think of all those sleepless nights you could have saved yourself—’

‘You knew about those?’

‘Of course I did.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Anyway, thank goodness you’ve had the sense to confide in me at last. I hate to think of what you’ve been putting yourself through, trying to bear this burden alone.’

‘But as Archwizard, the burden is mine to bear,’ Cyran protested. ‘It isn’t fair of me to lay it on your shoulders too.’

‘To be sure, the whole business is dreadful beyond words, and it scares the daylights out of me,’ Sharalind admitted soberly. ‘All the same, I would rather know what we are up against than remain in blissful ignorance until the blow falls. And at least this way, I can help you prepare for the worst.’

‘As Chief Archivist, you have responsibilities enough of your own, without taking on mine.’

She cast her eyes up to the heavens. ‘But Cyran, my love, as Chief Archivist I’m exactly the person you should be asking. I know more about the preservation of our lore than any other living Wizard. Furthermore, this should not stop at just me. Wizards cannot live on magic alone, and there are other measures we should be taking in case of war. There are several other people you should be consulting: the Heads of the Healers and Merchants, for a start, so that food and medicinal herbs can be preserved and stockpiled. What of the Artisans and Spellweavers, also? If war is coming, their contribution will be important. And what about Esmon? He ought to be told, if anyone is.’

‘You know very well how I feel about Esmon.’ There was a thin, sharp edge of anger in Cyran’s voice. ‘To begin with, he thinks I’m a weak Archwizard, and that he ought to take my place. And if that weren’t enough, he and his self-styled Warriors are a danger to us all, with their notions of using magic for martial purposes.’

‘I know, and I agree with you. Indeed, these visions you’ve been having prove your point that magic is far too powerful a tool ever to be used in war. But my love’ - she reached out and touched his face gently with her fingertips - ‘don’t you see that your visions are telling you that it will happen, and probably in our lifetime? Otherwise why should you be the one to receive these warnings? Someone or something is going to set this dreadful business in motion, and magic is clearly going to be used, whether we like it or not. And if we don’t reciprocate in kind, we’ll be utterly overwhelmed. Also, if you take him into your confidence and include him in your plans, Esmon is far more likely to work with you, rather than against you - and we need all the help we can get. We must take this opportunity to make ourselves as ready as we can be to withstand the onslaught, and Esmon is the Head of the Warrior Wizards.’

Cyran realised that his soulmate was right. From that time onward, as well as insisting on monthly conferences for all four Magefolk leaders, he had, without telling his other three counterparts, let the Heads of all eight Luens of Tyrineld in on the secret, and had started to hold regular meetings with them to plan, as best they might, for a future that seemed to be filled with dread and doubt. One of those meetings had been scheduled for today, but Cyran had cancelled it. He had certain plans of his own that he wanted to put into action first, and he hoped to act with swiftness and secrecy so that that none of them would have a chance to argue and object - as they inevitably would.

Thoughts of meetings brought Cyran’s mind back to the scheme that he was so carefully keeping secret from his deputies. Certain happenings to the north of the Wizardly realm had begun to cause him grave concern. After the attack on the Wild Hunt by renegade slaves the previous winter, the Phaerie had started to make raids further and further south to pursue their revenge. He was now receiving reports from the northern frontier town of Nexis that the Hunt had, on several occasions, crossed the border, and slain mortals who had been carrying out legitimate tasks of forestry and planting for their Wizard masters. Such depredations could not be allowed to continue, but Cyran knew he must act with great caution. Were these Phaerie raids the first skirmishes in a greater war - or had his visions caused him to exaggerate the danger in every trivial happening?

The sound of feet pounding up the stairs interrupted his deliberations and heralded the arrival of Avithan, Cyran’s son, who came bursting into the room in his usual reckless fashion, giving the impression that he had too many things to do and not enough hours in which to do them. Avithan had recently succeeded to the position of Head of the Luen of Spellweavers, where he could finally indulge his passion - the invention of clever spells intended to make life easier for the Wizards in a whole variety of ways. The trouble was that the Wizardfolk in general, including Cyran himself, had little use for this very practical, unobtrusive form of magic. What was the point, he’d argued with his son, when they had mortal slaves to perform all the menial tasks?

Avithan, however, had remained undeterred. ‘Most of us are becoming far too dependent on mortals,’ he replied. ‘How can such a thing be healthy? What would happen to the Wizards if our race were ever to be thrown onto our own devices? We should be able to take care of ourselves.’

‘Oh, come now,’ Cyran had scoffed. ‘How likely is it that a tribe of ignorant, short-lived primitives with no magic would ever gain the power to govern themselves? Mortals were born to be slaves, and that’s the end of it.’ And as that was also the consensus of opinion among the other Wizardfolk, Avithan had found himself very much on his own. He didn’t let that bother him in the slightest, however, and continued with his innovations undeterred by scepticism and scorn. And while people might scoff at his theories on the mortals, they were quite happy to make use of his spells when it suited them. Much as he disagreed with Avithan’s unlikely notions about the slave race, Cyran had to admire his son’s determination and convictions. Avithan had earned the powerful position of Head of a Luen through his own abilities and hard work, and he was determined to run things his way.