I heard a footstep on my off hand and gripped the hilt of the sword with nerveless fingers; as I did so, Saedrin opened the shades to swallow me.
The outer court of Wellery’s Hall,
in the island city of Hadrumal,
30th of Aft-Spring
He was an imposing figure; tall, dressed in black velvet with a subtle embroidery of scarlet and gold flames at the neck, indicating his mastery of fire to even the most untutored apprentice. A ruby glowed on his breast, clasped in the jaws of a sinuous dragon brooch, the red gold of his ring of office catching the sunlight as he raised his hand to adjust the hang of his maroon cloak. This and the excellent cut of his gown happily concealed much of his bulk, but regretfully the current fashion in high, tight collars was cruelly unflattering to his thickly jowled neck. Several apprentices hastily removed themselves from his path as he strode through the courtyard, an expression of extreme displeasure on his flushed face.
“Archmage!”
A slimly built man in dark, workaday broadcloth turned his head, an unremarkable figure were it not for his air of absolute confidence.
“Hearth-Master.” Planir inclined his head in a nicely calculated acknowledgment then turned back to the trio of nervous novice wizards.
Kalion had no choice but to wait for the Archmage to conclude his conversation. He stood, feet planted firmly on the cobbles, brows knitting as his already high color deepened to beetroot, which clashed unpleasantly with his opulent attire.
“It’s been a pleasure; remember, my door is always open.” Planir’s warm smile deepened the fine creases around his eyes, which lingered a little on the slim back and fine ankles of one of the girls. The apprentices quickly retreated from Kalion’s forbidding gaze.
“Good morning, Hearth-Master.” Planir ran a hand over his close-cut black hair and turned to Kalion. “Let’s use your study, shall we? It’s closest.”
Before the fire mage could reply, Planir led the way briskly out of the courtyard and down the flagged sidewalk of Hadrumal’s high road. Kalion swept after the Archmage, his lips narrow with barely concealed irritation by the time they turned into a second courtyard of pale stone buildings and he took out a key to open the door to a slender tower whose pinnacles were carved into tongues of stone fire.
“I am very much perturbed by what I have just learned—” he began as they climbed the stairs.
“That much is evident,” said Planir without heat. “Which is why I feel we should discuss your concerns in the privacy of your rooms.”
Kalion’s heavy boots rang on the oak of the stairs as he stamped his way up to his luxuriously appointed accommodations.
“What has happened to this man Ryshad?” he demanded without preamble, shoving the door closed behind Planir and dumping his cloak unceremoniously, half onto a sumptuous brocade chair, half on the floor.
“Shivvalan is attempting to find out, Hearth-Master,” replied Planir mildly, retrieving the cloak and hanging it precisely on its customary hook.
“Attempting sounds more than a little vague,” Kalion sniffed. “Do these Ice Islanders have the man or not?”
Planir spread his hands in an eloquent gesture. “As yet, we do not know.”
“We need to find out,” stated Kalion firmly. “The matter must be raised with the Relshazri magistrates at once; I have contacts in the city with sufficient status to do so. I should have an answer for you within a few days at most.”
“Thank you, Hearth-Master, but I don’t believe that will be necessary, just at present.” There was steel wrapped in the velvet of Planir’s courtesy.
Kalion stared at him, undaunted. “Your man, Shivvalan, has managed to lose perhaps the most significant of all the artifacts we have discovered pertaining to this lost colony, and you don’t think urgent measures are necessary? That sword is one of the few items we can absolutely place in the possession of a man we know without doubt to have sailed with Den Fellaemion to Dastennin only knows where and then vanished.”
“I prefer to give Shivvalan some time to discover Ryshad’s whereabouts discreetly.” Planir made himself comfortable on a leather upholstered settle. “I don’t particularly want the Relshazri asking questions about this man’s significance or wondering just what our interest in him might be. It is my decision to make, Kalion.”
The Archmage’s tone was smooth but implacable. Kalion turned to busy himself at a sideboard where a crystal decanter stood in a circle of red-stemmed glasses.
“Cordial?”
“A little of the damson liqueur, thank you.”
Planir took the glass with a warm smile and Kalion sat down in a high backed, ornately carved oaken chair, arranging the skirts of his robe with some care.
“If the Elietimm have taken the man, it’ll be because they have the talents to unlock the mysteries the sword is concealing.” Kalion leaned forward, his expression intent. “We must be prepared; we have to know what we are dealing with. I have said time and again that we should make a more active search of the libraries on the mainland, demand access to the archives of the remaining temples, perhaps even bodies such as Merchant Venturers’ associations, the Caladhrian Parliament. We need to know if they have information we can use and this slow accumulation of reports from itinerant scholars is simply not good enough.”
“I am sure that we are learning what we need as fast as is consistent with discretion.” Planir wiped a bead of moisture from the foot of his empty glass and placed it carefully on the top of a highly polished wine cooler. “Still, tell me Hearth-Master, what do you propose to tell the Merchant Venturers of Col, for example, when you demand access to their confidential archive? What would be your explanation?”
“I would assume such a request, with the authority of the Archmage behind it, would need no explanation.” Kalion clearly thought the question nonsensical.
Planir nodded, pursing his lips. “And then, how would you counter the subsequent flocks of rumors taking flight clear across the Old Empire and probably right through the Great Forest and into Solura as well. That some secret plot is being hatched among all powerful wizards, hidden among the enchanted mists of their island city, guarded as they are by spell-wrought demons? What would you give me better odds upon; a plan to foist a mage-born King on to the throne of Lescar or some scheme to take control of, say, the Aldabreshi diamond trade?”
Kalion looked at the Archmage, puzzlement wrinkling his pudgy brow.
“Never underestimate the power of ignorant people in sufficiently large numbers, Hearth-Master,” said Planir crisply. “When people do not know the reason for something, they will supply their own. I have no intention of telling anyone outside the Council and our other contacts about the dangers the eastern lands might be facing.”
“We have to do something.” Kalion raised one hand in an impotent gesture of frustration. “I have spent both halves of the last season trying to come up with an application of the elements to this cursed aetheric gimmickry and I might as well be trying to catch the moon’s reflection with a spoon.”
Planir permitted himself a slight smile at the nursery tale image. “Your efforts may not have been rewarded but that in itself adds significantly to our knowledge. If you, the senior Hearth-Master, with one of the strongest affinities on record, cannot find an application of fire in the aetheric methods of kindling flame, no one can.”
His tone was entirely sincere and Kalion acknowledged the truth of this with a grunt. “That’s all very well, Archmage, but if we can’t counter these unholy magicians, the threat they pose becomes even greater.”