“They have stirred up the mountains with Misaen only knows what lies!” cried Usara. “Surely we must show them that we simply will not tolerate such deliberate malice?”
“What would the King of Solura feel, seeing mages waging war on behalf of the Forest Folk?” Planir demanded, face stern. “What would he think of the wildwood becoming the province of wizards with no ties or loyalty to his laws, rather than his realm’s age-old safeguard against Tormalin ambition?”
“We would leave once the situation was resolved,” objected Usara.
“And when would that be?” Planir queried with polite interest. “How long before we could be confident the Mountain Men would not simply storm down from their heights the instant the last mage returned to Hadrumal? How would you reassure the Forest Folk that they would be safe from further attack? Don’t you think they would want at least a few mages, if only to summon help if they are invaded again? Are we going to commit ourselves to supporting the Forest Folk, when they have proved to have no learning of any real worth? Do we want to make enemies of the Mountain peoples, when they have aetheric learning that we so desperately need?”
“I’m sure we could come to some compromise.” Usara sounded less certain.
“What would the great guilds of Selerima and Vanam have to say, the good burghers of Wrede or even of Grynth?” Planir set his glass aside and laced his fingers together, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “Remember how fiercely these cities and lordlings prize their independence. It may be twenty generations or more since they threw off Tormalin domination, but the memory of the struggle lingers. How would they react to wizards in the Forest dominating the road to all the lucrative markets of Solura? We could have them expelling every mage within their boundaries, forbidding the cities to any wizard, reinstating the penalties for wielding magic that forced Trydek to bring his motley band of apprentices to Hadrumal in the first place.”
Usara made no reply, merely looking increasingly dejected.
“That’s on the one hand. On the other,” Planir suited gesture to his words, “we would find ourselves besieged with requests for help. What of the Ferring Gap? We’d have guild masters hot-footing it to the nearest philtre seller, demanding immediate aid on all manner of spurious grounds.”
“They’d be disappointed then,” said Usara tartly. “All parties in the Gap have given just as much offense as they have received injury.”
“How do you propose refusing help when you have just overturned generations of tradition by fighting in support of the Forest Folk?” inquired Planir.
“This isn’t mere competition for profit,” Usara objected. “These people are being slaughtered!”
“So it’s a matter of principle?” Planir raised a finger. “It’s principles that have kept the Lescari at each other’s throats for ten generations, isn’t it? The rights of a ruler to bequeath his sovereignty to his own blood as opposed to the rights of whoever feels strong enough to make a grab for the crown. If we use our powers to halt one slaughter of the blameless, how can we let that chaos go unchallenged?”
“That’s completely different!”
“How, exactly?” Planir’s calm words were in increasing contrast to Usara’s heated tone.
“We are facing a decisive encounter with a rival magic!” snapped the younger mage.
“Only if we so choose,” Planir waved that away. “All right, I’ll grant you it’s a dangerous situation. Suppose we draw our line in the sand and challenge these enchanters to a pissing contest. How do you propose to explain it to the good people of Ensaimin and anywhere else dragged in? Just what principle is so important that we have the right to bring their world crashing down around their ears?”
“Mages are not answerable to the mundane populace!” retorted Usara.
“No,” agreed the Archmage. “We are not answerable to anyone. We can fight these sorcerers with all the power over air, earth, fire and water that we can summon, and no one can gainsay us.” He paused. “How will that affect our current negotiations with the princes of Tormalin? Don’t you think they might decide that facing the Elietimm on their own, with whatever aid Guinalle and her Adepts can offer, is preferable to allying with mages who take heed of no authority?”
“But that would be simple foolishness,” Usara replied angrily.
The gleaming surface of the mirror pulsed faintly with ripples of magic sliding across its surface. The candle burned fiercely, unnatural flame devouring the wax, hot drips sliding down the silver stick to threaten the polish of the table.
“If I say we should just ignore the princes of Tormalin and everyone else, you’re going to tell me I’m sounding like Kalion, aren’t you?” said Usara at length, with the shadow of a rueful smile.
“I would never be so impolite.” Planir’s grin gave the lie to his words as he leaned forward. “But I could spend all day finding arguments why the Council of Hadrumal cannot be seen to involve itself in what is, to all appearances, a fight for land and its attendant wealth. Here’s another one for you. We support the Forest Folk in this one conflict, but we deny our aid to anyone else who comes seeking it as a matter of principle—”
“You’re mocking me now,” Usara protested.
“Oh yes, ’Sar,” said Planir earnestly. “Where was I? These men of Wrede or the Duke of Draximal’s representatives, they go away empty-handed. There are a great many wizards out in the wider world, ’Sar. Who’s to say one might not be tempted, could not be bought, to use his powers in what could be argued was a good cause?”
“Every mage knows they are answerable to Hadrumal.” Usara wasn’t smiling.
“True enough, but how well could I impose the authority of this office if it came to it?” Planir lifted the heavy gold ring of the Archmage, its massive central diamond set between sapphire, amber, ruby and emerald. “When I have my Council split between defending the Forest in the west, fighting Elietimm in the east and beyond the ocean, while I spend what little remains of my time trying to convince everyone else we do not aim to recreate the Old Empire with me at its head?”
“There’s no reason to suppose anything like this will come to pass,” said Usara crossly.
“No reason to say it won’t,” countered Planir. “Sorry, I’m wrong. I can say with fair certainty that none of this will happen if I don’t allow the Council of Hadrumal and the Office of Archmage to be dragged into your fight in the first place. I grew up in the mining country of Gidesta and one of the first things every child is taught is never disturb a scree. Taking one stone from the wrong place can bring down half a hillside on your head.”
“And that’s your final word?” Defeat faded Usara’s voice.
“That is my final word,” Planir replied with deliberate emphasis. “You on the other hand are a free agent. You are at liberty to use any and every means at your disposal. You will have to answer to Council, but I can assure you of my absolute trust in your judgment and complete support.”
“Thank you for your confidence,” said Usara dryly. “But I don’t see quite what I can hope to achieve on my own. Other than Gilmarten, there isn’t another mage within leagues of here.”
“Why are you so sure of that?” Planir snuffed out the candle between two fingers, the image dissolving around Usara’s puzzled expression.
Candle smoke rose in a fragile blue spiral twisting and braiding itself in the shafts of the evening sun slanting in through the windows. Planir rose from his seat and moved to look out over the long roofs of Hadrumal. The gray stone of the halls was warming to gold in the last light, the courts and alleyways thronged with people as wizards and scholars turned their minds to food, drink, conversation and relaxation. The Archmage gazed down, following individuals here and there until the little figures disappeared through gate or doorway.