It made the job of City Guard simple, as at dusk they closed the gates of the only fully walled City in Balaia and patrolled the empty streets. Fear stalked the alleyways as it had done for centuries. But now it was a legacy. It had no substance.
Change was so slow and the City was suffocating. Few native Xeteskians had left to enjoy the freedom granted them by the latest Lord of the Mount as his first action on assuming the mantle of the College’s ruling mage. And in the twelve years since, Styliann had encountered nothing but reluctance to cast aside the old ways, as if his people drew perverse comfort from living in fear of everyone they met. Yet now, his failure to change the collective will and mind of his people could work to his advantage.
Styliann was an imposing figure, well in excess of six foot, with the body of a forty-year-old disguising his true age of somewhere over fifty. His hair, receding halfway across his skull, was long, dark and brushed hard into a ponytail that reached beyond his shoulders. He wore dark trousers and a shirt of deepest blue, and his cloak of office, gold-trimmed black, was draped about his shoulders. His nose was long and thin, his jaw set harsh and his cold green eyes scared all they looked upon.
‘I take it she escaped Terenetsa unharmed?’ asked his companion across the fireplace.
Styliann blinked several times and shook his head to clear his mind of his reverie. He regarded Nyer, a senior aide and archmage, for a few moments, remembering the old maxim concerning where to keep your friends and enemies. He thought he had Nyer, a wily political animal and sharp thinker, placed about right.
‘Yes, she did. Just. And she’s now well clear.’ He shivered at the memory of his recent contact with Selyn, anxious for the mage spy’s safety. Even under a CloakedWalk, she had been at risk from those she watched and the manner of her escape from Terenetsa, a small Wesmen farming community not far west of the Blackthorne Mountains, would trouble his dreams that night. He reached a slightly tremulous hand down to a low table and picked up his wine, a deep and heavy red that had not kept as well as he’d hoped. He felt tired. Communion over such a range sapped the strength and he knew he would need to visit the catacombs for prayer later that evening.
‘But something is troubling you, my Lord.’
‘Hmm.’ Styliann pursed his lips, knowing any reluctance to speak would be taken by Nyer as a personal slight. He couldn’t afford that. Not yet. ‘She saw everything we have been fearing. The Wesmen are subjugating villages near the Blackthornes. She heard the Shaman offer them life for crops and obedience. The evidence is just overwhelming. They are massing armies, they are united and the Shaman magic is strong.’
Nyer nodded, pushing his hand through his long greying hair.
‘And Parve?’ he asked.
‘I have asked her to travel there.’
‘Selyn?’
‘Yes. There is no one else and we must have answers.’
‘But, my Lord—’
‘I am well aware of the risks, Nyer!’ snapped Styliann. His expression softened immediately. ‘My apologies.’
‘Not at all,’ said Nyer. He placed a comforting hand briefly on Styliann’s knee.
‘We must be so careful now,’ said Styliann after another sip of wine. ‘Are our Watchers sure the Wytch Lords are still held?’
Nyer breathed out, a long, sighing sound. ‘We believe so.’
‘That isn’t good enough.’
‘Please, Styliann, let me explain.’ Nyer’s use of his Lord’s name was against protocol but Styliann let it go. Nyer was an old mage who rarely followed etiquette. ‘The spells to determine that the Wytch Lords are still in the mana cage are complex and are nearing completion for this quarter. Delays have been caused through unusually high activity in the interdimensional space in which the cage is located.’
‘When will we have an answer?’ Styliann pulled an embroidered cord next to the fireplace.
‘In the next few hours. A day at most.’ Nyer raised his eyebrows in apology.
‘You know it’s only a matter of time, don’t you?’
‘My Lord?’
‘The evidence is all there.’ Styliann sighed. ‘The unification of the Wesmen tribes, Shamen at the head of war parties, armies building in the south-west . . .’
‘Must it be the Wytch Lords?’
‘You don’t really need me to answer that question, do you?’ Styliann smiled. Nyer shook his head. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come!’ barked Styliann. A young man entered, short red hair riding above a face taut with trepidation.
‘My Lord?’
‘Bring up a fire and another bottle of this rather average Denebre red.’
‘At once, my Lord.’ The young man left.
The two senior mages paused in their conversation, contemplating the future and not liking what they saw.
‘Can we stop them this time?’ asked Nyer.
‘I fear that rather relies on your man,’ replied Styliann. ‘At least as much as the timing of the Wytch Lords’ escape. He has reported, I take it?’
‘He has, and we now hold the amulet.’
‘Excellent!’ Styliann slapped the arms of his chair with the palms of his hands and rose. He walked over to the window, hardly daring to ask his next question. ‘And?’
‘It is Septern’s amulet. We can make progress now, assuming we get the right help.’
Styliann breathed deeply and smiled as he looked out of his Tower high above the College. The Tower dominated the College and its encircling balcony gave him unrivalled views of the City and its surrounds. The night was cool but dry. A thin cloud was bubbling up from the south-east, threatening to obscure the countless thousands of stars whose pale light pinpricked the dark. The smell of oil fires and the heat of the City wafted on a slight breeze, not unpleasant to the senses. Beyond the College walls, the quiet was growing.
Styliann’s Tower was encircled by those of his six Mage Masters but stood far taller. Looking down, he saw lights burning in Laryon’s Tower too. The most recently appointed Master, he was a man who would now have to join the inner circle, completing the seven-tower bond.
‘This could mean everything to us,’ he said.
‘Laryon has worked hard,’ said Nyer, coming to his side. ‘He has earned the credit.’
‘And your man. He’ll see the necessary help is obtained?’
‘I have every confidence.’
Styliann nodded and gazed out over Xetesk, at ease that his people would obey his every order without question. The first step had been successfully taken but now the way would become fraught and those who knew enough would have to be kept close.
‘I think, Nyer, that when the wine arrives, we may permit ourselves a small celebration.’
Chapter 3
She lay back on the bed again, the pounding in her head bringing sweeping nausea through her body. She shuddered, prayed that she’d been sick for the last time but not really believing she had.
Every muscle ached, clotted with pain, every tendon strained. Her skin felt so tight across her chest it would split if she dared breathe in deep, and her shallow, gasping intakes drew whimpers as they stretched her tortured lungs. It would subside. However, having no idea how long she had been out, she had no idea when the symptoms would fade.
But the physical pain coursing through her body was as nothing to the well in her heart and soul, opened by the loss of her sons. Her reason to live. For them, her body quaked and shivered. She reached out with her mind, striving to touch theirs but knowing she could not and cursing her decision to delay the teaching of communion.