“That might be best.” A sturdily built man much of an age with Planir and Herion knelt by the fireplace stacking badly charred tomes inside the fender. He brushed blackened fragments from a blue cuff. “You might like to sort these out, Sannin. No one will wonder why you smell of char.” He grinned at the shapely woman who sat on the silk-hung bedstead.
“Thank you, Rafrid, but I don’t care to have people think I’m losing my touch.” Sannin tucked a lock of lustrous brown hair behind one ear as she leafed through a small book. “Will that little masquerade keep Kalion chasing his own tail until we have more definite news?”
“He’ll have Troanna chasing him,” chuckled Rafrid. “And she’ll be after anyone else who might conceivably know what we’re up to.”
“Quintessential magic’s actually something I’m quite interested in pursuing.” Herion glanced up from his scroll.
“Naturally, once we’ve settled these Elietimm.” Planir leant against the door. “You don’t imagine I was lying to our revered Hearth Master?”
Rafrid set down the seriously burnt book he’d been examining and brushed his hands briskly together. “The first thing Kalion will be telling Troanna is your plan to elevate me above my peers. For which my sincerest gratitude, Archmage.” He looked rather more resigned than elated.
“You can take it up with Shannet, if you don’t want the honour,” Planir offered.
Rafrid pretended to consider this. “No, I’ll take the aggravation of office over her reproaches.”
“She’d never forgive you,” smiled Sannin, still intent on her reading.
“Do you have any ambitions to the honour of Hearth Mistress?” asked Planir idly.
“Me?” Sannin looked up, startled. “No, none at all.”
“You’d tell people exactly that, if such a curious rumour should start circulating?” Planir’s tone was solicitous.
“Just so.” Sannin returned to her book.
“Once word gets round we’ll each have half the Council knocking on our doors.” Herion glanced at Rafrid before looking at Planir. “We’d better have our answers agreed before the rumours start flying round.”
Planir nodded. “Go off and learn your verses. These can wait.”
“I’ll send someone reliable from Hiwan’s library,” Rafrid offered as the two men departed through a second door out on to the staircase.
“Thank you.” Planir went to shut the door but left it ajar, turning to Sannin who was still absorbed in reading. “Are you willing to risk your reputation by being found alone with the Archmage in his bedchamber?” Bitterness underlay his jest.
“My reputation’s safe with anyone whose opinion I value.” Sannin played absently with a button on the nicely rounded bodice of her scarlet dress, not looking up. “Are you really going to ask her to marry you?”
“I told you I wasn’t lying to Kalion.” Planir came to sit beside Sannin on the bed. “Don’t you approve?”
Sannin gazed at him. “It’s not for me to approve or disapprove.” She kissed his cheek with comradely affection before standing up. “And I gave up pointing out the pitfalls in your chosen path when we were apprentices. Just be careful.”
“I’m touched by your concern.” Planir grinned. “But what’s life without a little risk?”
“Safer. I’m rather more concerned about Larissa,” chided Sannin. “You’ve the hide of the village bull and the stones to go with it but she’s barely out of her first pupillage. I know she has a double affinity and plenty of intelligence to go with it but she’s not as strong as she’d like you to think. She always feels she has to match your measure as well as prove herself to everyone else twice over, just because you favour her. I’ve seen her overplaying her hand more than once — not that she’s the first to do that of course.” Sannin shook her head with rueful amusement. “I’m glad she’s got Usara to rein her in before she comes to grief. Now I’d better get back and see if any of my apprentices have set themselves alight.” She left without a backward glance, pulling the door closed, full skirts swishing on the wooden floor.
Planir sat for a moment before searching beneath his pillows. Tucked in the corner where the yellow silk curtains were tied to the posts, he found a gauzy gossamer wrap embroidered with frivolous blue flowers. He held the delicate cloth to his face and breathed deeply, eyes closed with longing. When he lowered his cupped hands, mischievous determination brightened his fond smile.
Moving to the window he raised the hand bearing the Archmage’s great ring. The central diamond caught the strong sunlight and broke it into myriad rainbow shards trapped within the facets. Taking the battered silver circle from his next finger, Planir slid it carefully on beside the insignia of his office. The Archmage’s grey eyes narrowed and new light glowed softly in the gems surrounding the diamond. Clear amber light strengthened opposite mysterious emerald radiance and the ruby glowed with increasing warmth opposite the sapphire’s cold blue. Planir’s face might have been carved from marble as he bent all his concentration on the luminous gems now outshining the very sunlight. The diamond burned ever brighter, drawing colour from the other gems, brilliance fringed with fleeting rainbows. The old silver ring was lost in the blinding light until the magic suddenly flashed into nothingness, leaving Planir gasping, sweat beading his forehead.
He winced as he carefully removed the silver ring, a raw, blistered weal now circling his finger. Shaking, the Archmage studied his handiwork. The once dull and scuffed ring was bright and untarnished, unmarred by any scratch or blemish. It glowed with a rich silver sheen softened with just the faintest hint of gold. Planir left his bedchamber, waving a hand and locks on both doors out on to the corridor snicked softly secure.
Planir slipped the silver ring on his forefinger as he collected a candle from the mantel and took up the mirror and candlestick from the window seat. He winced as snapping his fingertips for a flame pulled painfully at his blisters but the candle burned fiercely all the same. The spreading light shone brilliant in the steel and Planir laid his hands either side of the dark wood frame, concentrating until the spell shrank to little more than a thumbnail disc of vivid brightness.
“Larissa?” whispered Planir. “Dear heart?”
“Archmage?” Her startled voice rang through the spell.
“Just listen.” He bent close to the mirror. “Ilkehan is dead. They killed him and cut up his body so D’Alsennin should be able to attack the pirates without fear of Artifice inside a day.”
“I’ll bespeak ’Sar,” Larissa began.
“No,” Planir interrupted. “Not until I know it’s safe. Some enchanter may still find a scrap of power somewhere and try to make trouble. Just wait—and I have something for you, to help you when it comes to the fight—”
Frowning, the wizard caught his breath. Then he gasped in sudden shock. He flung the mirror from him, knocking the candle aside, hot wax spattering his hand. The Archmage was oblivious to the searing pain, reeling back senseless in the window seat, a trickle of blood oozing from one nostril. But the silver ring was gone from his finger, leaving only the blistered scar of the burn.
Suthyfer, Sentry Island,
10th of For-Summer
Usara, wake up!”
The urgent voice roused the mage. “Guinalle?” He sat bolt upright, then cursed as he slid off the makeshift bed a sailor had lashed together. He hit the ground with a thump that jarred his spine.
“No, it’s me, Larissa.”
“ ’Sar?” Hearing voices, Halice came towards the frond-covered canopies she’d ordered built to shade each bed from rain in the night and the earliest light of morning. “I thought I told you to get some rest.”
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you playing at?” Usara stared at the brilliant swirl of blue-white light.