Aramas looked around as everyone filtered into the circular, rune-covered room, and found their places with their fellows. There were thirteen different factions in the Thirteen Candles, by ancient agreement, each with its own leaders – though many blended into the other factions that held similar viewpoints, and lots of the heretics seemed to move at will between the groups, declaring loyalty to this or that master, switching rooms at the drop of a hat… Broadly, there seemed to be three major alliances.
Housed in the northerly towers were the mages who believed the heretics should work alongside the champions, constantly seeking for a way to bridge the gap, come to terms amidst the piles of corpses. Within that group there was a minority who hated the fact all the others used massacre as a means to an end, who didn’t want to bring the champions into the fold but rather sought to emulate them in their arguments; and amongst that minority there were a few who sought to stop the others from killing at every opportunity.
These few were often the targets of censure and even violence, their numbers kept low by predation and sniping.
In the southerly towers were housed the mages who understood the truth, who accepted the inevitability of fate, and made the true sacrifice by annihilating their fellow Mundians. It wasn’t done with glee, it seemed, but with a perfunctory prayer whispered under the breath; yet it was carried out without qualm. Every death was one less soul fed to the harbingers of apocalypse. And there were only a few months left till it began. The ‘crowning year’ would be upon them soon.
Then finally, in the central towers you would find the moderates, the fence-squatters, the weak. They had the greater numbers, the greater sway, but apparently their leaders always fell in line when Ithilya, Hirazain and Vardae gathered to put their collective foot down.
As was happening here tonight.
Given all the tumult and disorder amongst the heretics, within their first week in the Candles Aramas and Cullimo had already seen three different rallies taking place in the Hall of Embrace, the one space where spells of all kinds were disallowed by centuries-old glyphs. Three rallies which (despite the magic prohibition) still turned vicious, spellbound knives and even swords being drawn, albeit less-deadly with their ensorcellments dampened. No one had been killed, thanks to the healers, but this didn’t change the fact that since Aramas arrived there’d been almost a dozen cold-blooded murders reported across the towers. And this probably didn’t account for the true figure, according to Ithilya.
Life was cheap, when you knew it was going to end. When you really knew it. Aramas found it hard to care about death – in fact, he fancied that he now found it exciting. At meal-times, the dinner-hall would be divided into three, but you wouldn’t know until you arrived which group would be sitting at which tables; if you were one of the first to arrive, you had to hope your fellows gathered around you or you’d swiftly find yourself having to hurry across the room with your bowl of stew and chunk of bread. Sometimes fights started when a table found itself cut off from its supporters. Once that had happened to Vardae; she’d been sitting at a table with just two of her colleagues, with the uncommitted scum around her staring at her, trying to intimidate her, force her to shift away from them – but none dared approach her directly, and, having lost one of the tables that was supposed to be theirs, some of their members were forced to eat standing.
Vardae had something of a reputation, it seemed, even though by all accounts she was a relative newcomer – she’d climbed the ranks quickly, seizing the master’s position just a couple of years back. For now, though, Aramas was a neophyte without reputation or rank, and even when he gained his power this would only accelerate his rise through the upper tiers – he’d still have to pass the tests to reach the journeyman stage… Until then he would continue to get kitchen assignment, toilet assignment, even with arch-sorcery at his fingertips.
In here, therefore, he was just one of the crowd of initiates, standing on the upper levels around the edge of the Hall of Embrace. Only journeymen, adepts and masters were permitted onto the floor during a meeting, and only adepts and masters could actually speak.
The Hall of Embrace was a nexus-point, located in what he suspected was the central stem of the Candles, given the chamber’s size. It went unused except for during events such as this. There were probably close to a thousand people in the place, and there was likely room for a few more of the late-arrivals.
Vardae was making her report, quietly and calmly, and all were silent to hear her words. Her blonde curls were tied back in a bob that bounced around as she paced.
“As many of you will be aware – as some of you will not be aware – we are constantly seeking those avenues by which we can perform a major strike without walking into a trap before we can achieve our goals. I have one such almost-unforeseen opportunity, tomorrow night. We’ll assault the Sunset Keep in Treetown, and even on the low end of our estimates we’ll achieve an acceptable risk-reward ratio. Hit and run – use your mobility to your advantage, and don’t get taken down. We’ll need you in Illost, trust me. In addition, I’ll require two distractions – one for Winterprince in Firenight Square, and one for Mountainslide and Glancefall in Openway. The distractions carry higher liability, and are open to archmages only.” The diviner looked around the hall. “I am amenable to volunteers, but you should know that I would be willing to issue ultimatums, were I to find the necessity.”
People started shouting. Arms were raised, dozens of them. It seemed there would be no need for ultimatums.
While a good quarter or third of the room was in uproar, Vardae went about her business. The archmages were selected first, and Aramas watched in fascination as two older adepts were chosen, siblings in matching rope-belted robes – arch-sorcerers from Ithilya’s faction, his own faction. Liebor and Ibaran, if he remembered correctly. Then there was a journeyman from Vardae’s own cohort, and a journeyman – no, two journeymen – from Hirazain’s section of the floor…
His stomach dropped when he saw that one of them was Fintwyna.
’Hit and run,’ he reminded himself. ’Don’t get killed.’ She’ll be fine.
A whole host of lesser mages, journeymen and adepts from six or seven different factions, rounded out the group: almost three dozen, all told.
“Fin’s down there!” Cull murmured, prodding him in the arm.
“I know!” he snapped back, half-whisper, half-growl.
“Hold!” Tilasto was on his feet, lifting a hand in a plea for silence. “Hold!”
Aramas glared across at the ‘master’. Tilasto’s faction occupied the Candles’ second tower – or twelfth, depending on your perspective. One of the northernmost towers. They were preoccupied with finding loopholes, ways they could persuade champions or magisters to their point of view.
Even after just a couple of weeks in the place, Aramas could barely stand him. He was tall and stern-looking, but had the attitude of a coddled house-cat, declawed, left with only hissing and spitting to get himself noticed.
Gradually Tilasto the house-cat was afforded his opportunity to speak, and he slowly lowered his hand as he raised his voice.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
“This will not do! We are to ratify any motion for massacre. They are not our enemies, Vardae. Or do you forget, our efforts are to save them, save the world from this unspeakable, irreversible catacl-”
“Do sit down, my good master,” Ithilya raised her voice, and her words were met by a clamour of approval that seemed to come from over half of the room. She was probably forty-five, and her thin brown hair had grey in it, but here in the Hall her eyes looked bright and young and vital. “We bring this message to the Hall of Embrace, that you might see sense, that we might share with our brethren. We do not require your permit to act.”
“But we must ratify –“
“Why, Tilasto?” Vardae cut him off a second time. “We have been here before. Vote amongst yourselves if it assuages your consciences. We’ve never agreed to be held by your decisions.”
Long-haired, long-bearded Hirazain cried out: “Nor could such agreement bind us when later we decided otherwise!”
Vardae nodded approvingly.
“Then we will oppose you, sabotage the mission!” Ribara wailed, wringing her hands. Ribara currently led the faction of the few, the faction of the passive sheep who slipped through the net into the Thirteen Candles.
Despite reviling her and everything she stood for, Aramas couldn’t help but admire her courage. Taking that position… It couldn’t come with a very high life expectancy.
As was immediately made plain.
“Sabotage us?” Vardae snarled. “Then I will introduce you to my dagger once we leave the Hall, won’t I? Let’s see if I get the impression there’s any truth to your claim once I’ve got my magic back –“
“Ladies – gentleman,” intoned smooth-voiced Jacel. He was the leader of the most-moderate moderates, rubbing his hand across the glistening surface of his bald sweaty scalp. “Please, let us be reasonable. Tilasto wishes to vote to ratify your proposition, Vardae. If the vote passes, you can be about your business. If the vote fails and you continue to press your case, then we can either continue our discussion or a formal complaint can be –“
Vardae stopped pacing right in front of Tilasto’s faction and threw up her hands. “Very well – look about you! Put it to the vote. I tire of your nonsense. Who is with me?”
She turned to face her supporters –
A blade, its fluorescent tint dulled to the point it looked like a mere painted knife, flashed at Vardae’s back –
“Look! – out…” someone started to shriek – but it was over before they finished the sound.
Even here with thousands of power-dampening runes all over the walls and floor and ceiling – even here she seemed to blur, spinning, taking the weapon-hand plunging down between her shoulder-blades into her grip instead of her unprotected spine. Her reaction-time wasn’t a tenth what it might’ve been outside the range of the glyphs but, still, she was ten times her attacker’s speed and at least double his strength.
When she caught his wrist and forced the forearm back against the elbow, the wrong way, the limb snapped cleanly in two – he produced an agonised gasp that fled from him as she kicked him in the chest, sending him flying back into his fellows.
Like a dancer, the thirty-ish seeress left her leg out in the air, displaying effortless flexibility, balance – then only slowly retracted her raised knee, placed her foot back on the floor.
“Hold!” she barked at her followers who started to surge forwards, thrusting out a hand in their direction before turning her attention back upon her enemies.
“Anyone else?” she demanded in that angry, unscared voice, standing right in front of them.
Hundreds of eyes stared out of the crowd at her – not in challenge. Staring in fear. The man she’d kicked was moaning and those near him looked the most afraid.
For those who’d found the reality of doom, the truth of the end of the world, they weren’t half a bunch of cowards.
Slowly, those staring eyes lowered, closed – Aramas saw Tilasto, pale and spent, ducking his head in defeat.
“So, Vardae agrees to a vote,” Jacel said, smiling. “Let us continue!”
The injured mage was taken out for healing as the stones were brought in – the adepts and masters cast their votes, and, as expected, it went in favour of slaughter.
The three masters worth listening to laid out their plans, and, despite their commitment to caution, Aramas had to hold his breath.
They’re sending Fin up against Winterprince…
Aramas knew of the champion, of course. He was one of the city’s most-powerful wizards, if not the most – everyone spoke as though Shadowcloud was the strongest, but Mountainslide had once beaten something in an Incursion that Shadowcloud couldn’t handle, apparently, and then on the next Incursion, Winterprince had fought two at once and came out the other side alive, both their heads on his swords… Aramas had tended to be one of those who thought comparing the power-levels of different champions was a fool’s game, until he’d arrived here, lived in the presence of archmagery… Suggesting an arch-diviner like Vardae was on an even footing with the other arch-diviners he’d met, that was the fool’s game…
Was Fin in their league? Could she stand up to someone like Winterprince?
Cull elbowed him again as Ithilya took the floor, and he snapped out of his daydream to listen. She pushed back her hood fully, revealing the deceptively-older face – she was perhaps in her late-forties, Ari decided, but it was hard to tell for sure because of her overall attractiveness; like Vardae she’d retained the willowy figure of her youth; where the diviner had curls Ithilya kept her pale hair long and straight, girlish in fashion.
The girlish sensibilities did not extend to her tone. When she spoke her voice was not quiet and calm as Vardae’s had been – it throbbed, its fervency spilling out over the crowd.
“This is the dark side of the soul, the price we pay Locus for our forbidden lore. We step into the darkness, that we might see clearly; for one is blinded only when one stands in the bright place. We understand the darkness, its place in our hearts. Powers forgotten by men, hated and reviled – we call upon ye, to steel our spines, equip us with those terrible weapons of the mind: ardour and zeal!”
She nodded to Tilasto, acknowledging him even in his defeat. “Let us not fall into apathy. Evil is not our purpose, only a means to an end! For what is death? Whence came the thought that ending is evil? Ending is the price we pay, for continuation. Change. Rebirth endless…
“Vaylech, King of Insects!” Ithilya raised her hands and face to the ceiling, lifted her voice yet louder. “Bless our sacrifices with your pestilence! Yane, Blade-Lord! Guide our hands in the slaughter to come! Grandfather Vaahn, Lord of Tyranny! Accept this our offering; let no restoration come from the hand of druid or divine to spurn our tributes upon thy altar! Drive Mother-Chaos from our dreams; let this city be!”
She lowered her hands, visibly shaking, and she looked over at the volunteers for the mission, the distractions.
When she concluded she sounded spent, drained:
“In the names of Belestae and Yune, go forth, bring our hopes into being. And should ye fall into the arms of our Grandfather, do so in the sure and certain knowledge: better a thousand such deaths, than one at the hands of the white dragon’s demons. Better to die and pass on, than have your soul raked apart, as will be the fate of every archmage if we fail.”
Word was, she’d once been a priestess before becoming enlightened to the truth. Everyone thought – everyone knew – that she was out of her mind. But everyone knew she was right, in every word.
“Very good,” Vardae spoke into the silence, a little dismissively, Aramas thought. “Tomorrow, then. You have tonight to prepare. Those of you on assignment, report here at three tomorrow afternoon.”
The arch-diviner had one last look around the room, then turned on her heel and used one of the two exits, her sycophants falling into line behind her instantly.
In the chaos of the rush to vacate the chamber, the place that made all their weapons and protections useless, Aramas told Cull he’d catch him later and pushed his way through the crushing bodies. He managed to catch up to Fintwyna in the doorway.
“Fin!” he gasped. “Fin!”
She looked around at him and, with a wary glance at the strangers teeming about them, she pulled herself towards him.
At first it didn’t look like she was going to make it, but druid-strength won out as the magic worked its way back into her muscles – or whatever it was that actually happened when an archmage left a place like the Hall of Embrace. They managed to find a spot beside the wall where the waves of people didn’t push against them so badly, and she shielded him with her body.
“Ari, isn’t it glorious?” she yelled over the background hubbub.
“Is – it is…” he replied. “Do you want to come over – I mean, you only just visited, and I thought we could –“
“What?” she cried.
“Do you – want to – come over?”
“Tomorrow night, once I’m back!” She looked so overjoyed she was going to burst, incredible durability or no. “I have to go work on my spiders – I’ll tell you everything – I’ll knock on late, I promise! They might make me a Hierarch, haha!”
She snorted laughter and it infected him. He smiled, in spite of everything.
Then the crowd pulled them apart.
He lingered beside the wall until the crowds were almost gone, then slipped in with a group of Hirazain’s followers, heading back to his room, never suspecting just how hard it would be to wait that long to see her again.
* * *