“Pay attention!” Miathan barked, making the Weather-Mage jump. “It’s important that you understand what I’m doing, and why. Though your attempts at scrying have found no trace of Aurian so far, Meiriel’s death should serve as sufficient warning of her capabilities. When she returns to the north—and return she will—we must be ready. We need the Nexian Mortals on our side; and, fortunately, most of them have scant intelligence and very short memories. If we claim it was Aurian who caused the winter and you who ended it, and then proceed to feed the starving rabble, we stand a chance of winning their support.”
“I don’t like it,” Eliseth said automatically. “Why, the very idea of groveling for the favor of those lowly vermin! And we may need that food—”
“Spring is here, you idiot!” the Archmage roared. “The Mortals are starving now, because nothing has had time to grow. In a few months there’ll be plenty of food for everyone, thanks to the botch you made of keeping control of your winter, and the power of our provisions as a bargaining tool will be lost.”
Eliseth bit her lip to keep from betraying her anger. “Very well,” she shot back at him. “Do as you will. Squander our supplies if you feel you must—but in return I want a favor.”
“What favor?” Miathan’s eyes bored into her. She could actually see him bristling with suspicion. The Weather-Mage shrugged. “No great thing,” she replied silkily. “While you are dealing with matters here in the city, it would still be to our benefit if I could extend my scrying to get a glimpse of Aurian.”
“Face it, Eliseth—your powers don’t extend that far,” the Archmage snapped impatiently. “How many times now have you tried and failed? Since Aurian reached the mountains, something has been shielding her.”
“And we must find out what it is,” Eliseth insisted. “Miathan, listen. You prevented me from torturing Vannor to boost my powers—you said you wanted to experiment on him yourself. Let me try now, as the favor I asked of you. The merchant will still be alive when I’ve finished, you have my word on it.”
“Though knowing you, he may well wish that he were dead,” Miathan said dryly. “Very well, Eliseth. You may try, if it will amuse you. Do what you must within reason to get results, but remember”—he leaned close, glaring fiercely into her eyes—“I want Vannor alive for a number of reasons. If you kill him, on your head be it—or on your face, at least.” His smile was cold and cruel. “It would be interesting to see what effect another twenty years would have on those flawless features…”
Eliseth shuddered. “I’ll be careful, Archmage—I swear it.”
“It’s up to you—you know the consequences if you are not.” With that parting shot, the Archmage got to his feet and left without another word. The Weather-Mage stared at the door as it closed behind him, and clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails cut into her palms. One day, Miathan, she thought, I’m going to kill you.
Eliseth wrapped a white linen kerchief around her long, pale fingers, and used it to pick up the flagon of wine. Lifting it up to the firelight, she studied the amber flicker of the dancing flames through the pale, clear liquid, and sighed. Though Miathan’s cellars had been extensive, this was almost the last of the white. The Archmage preferred the richer, robust vintages with sparks of fire and ruby smoldering in their dark depths. Well, there was no help for it—not yet. “When I am Archmage,” Eliseth murmured, “things will be different.” A smile curled the comers of her lips. But there was much to do before that day could arrive…
The Weather-Mage focused her powers on the angled glass facets of the flagon and tightened her hand around the slender neck. The creation of her winter, and her subsequent researches in Finbarr’s neglected archives, had taught her much about the forgotten and forbidden spells of the Cold Magic. At her word, the flames in the fireplace cringed back like beaten curs and flickered blue, and the light of the candles shrank and dimmed. A wisp of icy vapor came curling through the air to settle on the flask, hiding the wine within beneath a glittering white film of frost.
“Enough!” Eliseth banished the spell before the liquid could freeze and spoil and, still holding the flagon carefully in its cloth, poured the chilled wine into a crystal goblet. She went to her favorite chair by the fireside and sat sipping appreciatively, reflecting on the irony of such ancient, powerful, and lethal magic being harnessed for so mundane a task. Then again, why not? She felt the need to pamper herself a little tonight. Her spirits needed lifting, for lately things had not been going well.
It had been a mistake, she reflected, to take her frustrations out on her maid, although the lazy little slattern had deserved to be punished. Eliseth took another delicate sip of wine, reliving the memory of the girl’s distress as she had stood, frozen and immobile, in the middle of the room, only her eyes reflecting her terror as the Weather-Mage stood over her, flexing her fingers to tighten the ache of burning, icy cold around Inella’s body. Only afterward, when she had caught the expression of veiled resentment in her servant’s eyes, bad Eliseth realized her error. Though tormenting the maid had given her a satisfying and much-needed outlet for her recent frustrations, it had possibly caused irreparable damage to the child’s loyalties—and these days, the Magewoman reminded herself, she needed to foster what support she could get.
With gentle fingers, Eliseth smoothed away the wrinkle of a frown. Since Miathan’s spiteful spell had burdened her face with ten additional years of age, she had been forced to take great care of her beauty. All was not lost, she reassured herself. She had been quick to note the darkening bruises that disfigured Inella’s arms and face, and the child’s hunched posture and stiff, awkward movements, which had betrayed other damage out of sight: a gift from Janok, no doubt. Perfect! Eliseth found her smile again. The head cook had played right into her hands. She would turn a blind eye for a while and let him brutalize the girl—then she would punish him and rescue Inella, earning her maid’s gratitude once more.
Mortals were so easily manipulated—with one infuriating exception. As she thought of Vannor, Eliseth found herself beginning to scowl again. Leaping to her feet, she refilled her goblet from the frosty flask and gulped down the fragrant wine to cool her anger. For many days now, while the moon had passed through half its cycle, she had been trying to persuade Miathan to let her use the dark energy of the Mortal’s fear and pain to fuel her power. That first night, when she had gone to the merchant’s chamber to try her luck, the Archmage had forbidden her, and had been spitefully keeping Vannor to himself ever since. He could not seem to see how essential it was that Eliseth extend her scrying to pierce the miles of distance that separated her from Aurian, and the former leader of the rebels was the key—of that she was certain.
The Weather-Mage snarled a curse. Miathan! He had insisted that Vannor’s strength must be husbanded, and that he must be spared from any severe or crippling injury, the shock of which might kill him. What nonsense! That merchant was strong as an ox—strong enough to have learned to resist what suffering Miathan had chosen to inflict. That doddering fool of an Archmage was growing soft. Or was he? It was always a mistake to underestimate Miathan’s cunning, as she had learned to her cost. Did the old fox have plans of his own for Vannor? Or was he simply trying to limit Eliseth’s power? Well, whatever he was up to, it wouldn’t work. She’d had enough of waiting, enough of holding back. Fueled by the wine she had drunk, her resolve leapt up like a white-hot flame within her. Smiling, she went to seek her crystal so that she could call the gatehouse and summon two of the mercenary guards who were stationed there to assist her with the merchant. A plague on Miathan and his damned experiments. But she had worn him down at last. So long as she didn’t actually kill Vannor, the Archmage could scarcely complain of what she did to the Mortal—not if she achieved results. And tonight she would succeed at last. She would find Aurian, whatever it took to accomplish the task.