I blended in with the merchant traffic heading into Carrbridge, paid the toll, and then followed the path along the riverbank west to Sethgate at the very centre of the Crescent. All traces of rot disappeared and signs of true wealth were displayed in the finery of every shop front, in the mouth-watering aroma of roast suckling pig and capon from classy eateries, and in the brightly coloured clothing and fur-trimmed cloaks of passersby. Illusionists and acrobats plied their trade on street corners, breathing fire and juggling knives, entertaining with daring tricks and clever artistry. A puppeteer made her painted dragon dance and snap at three giggling children each time they tossed a coin into its wooden maw.
One of the illusionists was Gifted in a minor way; her glowing balls of faerie fire danced around the audience’s heads while shadowy daemon-shapes writhed across the walls. People gasped and stepped back as the shadowy claws reached for them. I kept a hand on Dissever and gave her a wide berth. Daylight or not, I didn’t trust shadows that moved on their own.
A pair of grizzled wardens watched me stroll by, noted my patched trousers, and took to following me down the street at a discreet distance. My coat was a fine piece of work, but that could have been stolen. Time to get some new clothing. I went into a store and spent Charra’s coin on new trousers and a dark tunic trimmed with vermillion, then fastened a waxed cloak around my shoulders. The shopkeep’s apprentice polished and buffed my boots as best he could – the leather was nicely worn-in and I wasn’t breaking in new boots if I didn’t have to.
When I emerged from the shop I looked less out of place. The wardens lost interest and wandered off to scan the crowd for cutpurses. I pulled the hood of my cloak up and began the long walk up the path to the Old Town. Ornate gilt-and-lacquer carriages bearing seals of noble houses trundled past, the scent of horseflesh and sweet perfumes wafting in their wake. Me, I had to slog my way uphill on foot, puffing and panting.
A gust of chill autumnal wind tore at my clothes. It was raining red, leaves stripped from the ornamental crimson maples so prevalent in the Old Town. Those and the venerable oaks were the only trees that didn’t grow twisted and foul in that magic-saturated soil. In another time and place I would have called the leaf fall beautiful, but all it did was remind me of Lynas’ skinning, the colours the shade of his blood. By the time I got to the top of the ramp I was in a foul mood, sweating profusely and wheezing for breath, making me realize just how indolent I had become.
Old Gerthan was there waiting for me. He looked unchanged: gaunt face framed by an unruly white beard, watery eyes, that same polished heartwood cane in his liver-spotted hand. Some magi were fortunate that their aging stopped in the prime of youth, while others like Old Gerthan and that hard-nosed bitch Shadea had to suffer the ills of a permanent old age. Some didn’t stop at all, slowly withering away year by year, life stubbornly clinging to their crumbling bones until even the magical resilience of a magus’ body finally failed.
I was surprised by one new addition: Old Gerthan was wearing the white robes of the Halcyon Order, healers that knew no rank and asked for no coin. So he had discarded the trappings of wealth and power to devote himself to healing the world? A laudable goal, but not one that I could ever follow: I was by nature more egoistic than altruistic. Although all Halcyons I’d ever met had seemed content, so perhaps there was something to it all.
He nodded to me as I hauled my sorry carcass up onto the flat before the gatehouse. “Good day, ‘Master Reklaw’,” he said. “Still among the living, I see.”
Ah, right, that. “Good day, Magus… er… Gerthan,” I said, desperately trying to remember his House name. Had I ever known it?
He chuckled. “Only ever called me Old Gerthan, eh? I take no offence.” His eyes hardened. “However, before I offer my assistance you will answer these questions: ten years ago, did you kill anybody before you left this city? Did you harm any other magi in any way?”
I frowned. “I haven’t the faintest clue what you are talking about.” He said nothing. I cleared my throat and clarified. “Not to my knowledge, no.” It was the truth as I knew it.
Old Gerthan’s gaze scoured my face for a long moment before his expression softened. “I believe you. More importantly, I believe Charra, and she does not give her trust lightly.” He plucked his white robes. “I owe this new and higher calling to her. Five years ago plague ravaged the lower city. She came to us, and on her knees before a small council of magi she begged for more aid.” He shook his head. “Charra is a proud woman and she does not beg, at least not for herself.”
“That does sound like her,” I said.
“I was struck by her sincerity and agreed. What I saw on Docklands streets that day, the poverty, overcrowding and sickness… I had no inkling it was so terrible. I put my Gift for healing at her disposal and in so doing I discovered my life’s calling. I owe her a great debt.”
He was a good man, one of the few who had treated me fairly even after the Arcanum found out what my awakened Gift was. “So how do you plan to get me in?” I said.
“Why, we go straight through the main gate, you scallywag. Luck mysteriously has it that today nobody is on duty that could possibly know you, but keep your hood up to be doubly certain.” He strode off, cane clacking, walking quicker than his aged frame should allow. “Come along now, no dallying.”
We walked past a dozen guards clad in battle plate and chain, and right on through the massive doors of enchanted oak and steel. The air vibrated with barely restrained magic, deadly ward-glyphs glimmering overhead. On the other side of the doors half a dozen combat-ready magi and two sniffers awaited us, all fresh from the Collegiate. Some magi looked young, but their old eyes and aura of power always gave them away. Old Gerthan nodded to one of the sniffers, a friend, and vouched for me. They frowned but bowed to the wishes of an older and well-respected member of the Arcanum.
We wound between the worshippers thronging the grand temple square, passing marble columns and archways carved with scenes glorifying the gods. The temples had been grown by the gods themselves, their black bones lifted from the living rock beneath us before being clothed in exquisite marbles, bronze and gold. It made the temples of the lower city seem like dirty fishing shacks. The temples changed shape yearly, each god trying to outdo the others, all except for the Thief of Life, whose many-columned classical Escharric edifice at least looked like he had made a vague attempt to rein it in. This new Hooded God looked like he had dived head first into the games of the others, and his many-columned temple was by far the gaudiest, gloating in its aggrandizement. The gods all schemed against one another in petty ways, bidding for mortal influence and prestige. As immortals they were probably bored and used us as playthings and pawns in an endless game of oneupmanship. Nathair generally remained aloof from that sort of nonsense – my kind of god really.
Behind the temples squatted a cluster of sinister step pyramids. The Tombs of the Mysteries were reputed to be shrines of deities forgotten long before Setharis was founded, grown from the same slick black, almost organic-looking stone as the towers of the gods. Their sealed doorways were overlarge and oddly-cut, protected by ancient enchantments no magus had ever deciphered never mind penetrated. Many had tried, and many had died.