INTERLUDE 2C: KINDLING
“To that I say there is no such thing as holiness. In me all acts are sins.”
– from ‘The Book of Kultemeren’, 1:150-152
He could barely contain his irritation.
“You jest, I assume.” He somehow managed to keep his voice level.
His ‘master’, the tall, overweight man in layered robes of blue on grey on black, was sitting in the chair behind the desk. His master’s lover (so the rumours went), the woman in gold-trimmed black, sat in the chair beside him. Both of them were staring at him with the most serious looks he’d ever seen on their faces.
A dragon.
Lyferin Othelroe had never thought to hear the words connected to reality in this way. Dragons hadn’t neared Mund in centuries. They were obviously intelligent, and were all too aware that a cadre of archmages would spell their doom in seconds, no matter their fearsome size and natural weapons; even the dragon’s own magic wouldn’t help them, under a concerted effort from a handful of champions.
“Alone?”
“Not alone, my lord,” Rala answered him immediately. He was quite certain she didn’t know his identity, but she could surely infer that he was eminently highborn from his refined voice. “We’re coming, and Phanar and his friends have already slain five, I think. Phanar; his sister Anathta; Ibbalat, who is something of a mage himself as I understand… Kanthyre, was it? The healer. Quite a few of us.”
Ghemenion was nodding.
She doesn’t understand, neither of them do. But how could they?
He was used to working as part of a team – a team of competent archmages. It’d been almost eighteen months since Lyferin’s first Gathering, and he had gone from strength to strength, under the tutelage of Timesnatcher and Leafcloak. Now they were proposing – what? That he solo a dragon? Abandon the people to all the new and interesting demons that would surely arrive in the next Incursion?
He needed those demons, if he was ever going to climb the ladder. Take Dustbringer’s place as chief sorcerer. Even Timesnatcher’s as the leader of the Gathering.
“Respectfully,” he began in what was, even to his own ear, an icy tone, “I meant in terms of champions.”
Rala opened her mouth, but Ghemenion cut in: “You’d give up a portion of your share?”
He looked between the two of them, keeping his face impassive. Not that it mattered much, with the spider’s-head mask of dark iron hiding the entirety of his visage from view; but it was good practice for voting-day at the Shadow Council.
From behind the eight black-glass eyes he regarded the two of them, looking back and forth.
“My share?”
Ghemenion cracked a smile.
He knows who I am. Already he suspects the debts of House Othelroe. If only he knew the extent of them, he’d pass out. I couldn’t even share it with Harukar.
And Lyferin knew this, money, was his greatest weakness. The hook the Master of the Night’s Guardians had inserted into the softness of his inner cheek and by which he was led this way and that. Like the fish on the hook, he knew, and like the fish on the hook, he was powerless to free himself. If he wanted to stay in his position he needed the funds to keep up appearances, and, more than almost anything, he wanted to stay in his position. Many loved him and many hated him, but, as with all the noblest lords, it was only his prominence that kept a vote of no confidence from deposing him of his exalted station.
Lyferin was currently, at age nineteen, Lord Shadow to the Second Seat, and he’d been there over four years – since the day of his fifteenth birthday, when Grandmother met with her ‘accident’ and was rendered permanently bed-bound. For the last four years, he’d sat in the Shadow Council and, along with the Lady Malice and Lord Justice to the Second Seat (who sat in their own Councils), he advised the Second Lord of Mund at the High Council.
Aside from the First Lady and her three advisors, Lyferin was arguably the most powerful person in the Realm. The Lady Malice to the Second Seat, Alaphar, deferred to him in all things, and the Lord Justice to the Second Seat was an ailing old man, a whisker (or a pouchful of platinum laid in enterprising hands) away from death. Their opinions counted for naught and they regularly missed High Council sessions. The Second Lord, whose advanced age was rivalled only by his Justice’s, listened to Lyferin alone. By all accounts he’d always been a doddering old fool, almost as bad as Lyferin’s fellow advisors, possessing scant wits and cursed with a predilection for the strongest wines – his only redeeming feature was his willingness to do what Lyferin told him.
These facts everyone knew.
Which was a very good thing, to Lyferin’s mind. He rose in the estimation of his peers as the years went by, turning their initial frowns of disappointment into shrewd, scrutinising frowns… and, then, into the soft smiles of rivals, or the fawning pouts of the cowed. Twivona herself detested him – that much had long been plain. Certainly the work-load was heavy; he had to keep up on domestic and foreign policy, as well as matters of intrigue. But his mastery of all the various levers of government impressed and intimidated his new counterparts. One day, he’d revert Sentelemeth’s reforms. He’d see Haid, the human frog, splatted on a stone with his guts all over the place. He’d see Wenlyworth’s shadow for real, clutch it in his fingers and squeeze till even the shade might scream.
The Arrealbord was set up in such a way that the greater the Seat’s primacy, the more votes its Lord or Lady could cast. The Seat at the tail near the door, the Thirty-Third Seat, had just a single vote to cast, while the Seat at the head in the centre, the First Seat, had thirty-three… Lyferin was essentially in charge of thirty-two votes, which was as many as the last seven or eight Seats combined. And each Seat stood for a different domain within the Realm – the farther from Mund the farther around the hall you went. The Second Lord, Lyferin’s puppet, was the lord of the vast province of Amrana to the immediate south-east, his throne at the port-city of Karamar on the Bone Cliffs; the First Lady was technically the lady of the city Mund itself, in addition to the surrounding hundred leagues of land – the fields of Fornolost and Agormand, the water-ways of the Briarflow, the Five Peaks…
But this was all technicality. Every Great House maintained homes within the pearly-white walls of Mund, and these days the generations of more than a few Houses simply lived and died within the walls, never even leaving to see their ancestral homes. Seneschals and governors maintained the properties, collected the taxes, cared for the people. The truly rich were too busy playing at being mages off in the capital to trouble themselves with the actual management of their countries.
And that was how Lyferin saw it now. He’d been chosen. He’d been blessed with power. These others, Ghemenion and Rala and Ibbalat and anyone else they wanted to send – they could make themselves out to be real magic-users, they could wield the terrifying forces of the universe – but they could never master them.
He’d been an enchanter-in-training, enrolled at the Maginox even as he sat in the Shadow Council and High Council. It’d been a struggle, maintaining his studies and trying to ensure he’d become a skilful enchanter while having the greater matters of the Mundic Realm whirling around inside his head. It was a respected school of magic, and he’d done his utmost to achieve his best, but ultimately his heart wasn’t in it. He failed his graduation in his second year, and would’ve been doomed to repeat the classes the following year, were it not for Grandmother’s timely death.
Stolen novel; please report.
Grandmother’s timely death, that also granted him the destiny of an arch-sorcerer.
If he’d known in advance that such a thing were going to happen, he’d have buried her head under the pillows all the sooner – but that was where he’d gone wrong.
How was he to know that the evil witch was going to leave him nothing but the title, donate her Mund estates away like that upon her death? She’d always hated him, that much was clear – she must’ve put it into her will before his fifteenth birthday. He was certain no one had got to her in the years after her incurable enfeeblement, courtesy of the daily application of two drops of an untraceable potion (difficult to brew perfectly, but not impossible for the motivated). She’d been unable to even communicate telepathically – the drug was perfect.
No, she’d hated him all along, and deliberately left him there, a Lord Shadow without a penny to his name.
He was able to recognise that she’d been right about him, of course – right to hate him, fear him. He’d been the death of her, after all. And the Othelroes had good instincts.
He could’ve retreated back to the ancient domains of House Othelroe, or could’ve fled with his tail between his legs to one of the cabins all proper families maintained in the mountains above Mund. That’d been what she’d wanted, he was sure. But no. He’d borrowed on his name, extracted what he could from his stewards, and kept the old faction together through simple force of character. Even now he still barely had enough to maintain a single manor-house in Treetown; Mund prices were exorbitant when you were living on a stipend from the treasuries of your far-flung territories. He could still only afford a single live-in chef, for instance. He’d never before had to consider how much a horse could eat, until he was paying his own way.
He didn’t need steeds. He could fly. He went down to a single set of four horses, for pulling the carriage. For keeping up appearances.
But he’d fought demons toe-to-toe. Fought them and claimed them for his own, stole their abilities to better dominate others, continuing his unbroken ascent for two years come next Yunara.
Even being Lord Shadow to the Second Seat was a chore when you could do that.
Sometimes he was tempted to let the world know who he was. Redgate, heralded ‘Saviour of Anvil Row’ a year ago, and ‘Defender of Blackbranch’ on the latest Incursion. If he revealed himself, money would flow in. Opportunities would arise out of nowhere.
And his – Lyferin’s – reputation would suffer an unrecoverable blow. ‘Opportunities’ indeed. Money-grubbing. It was a distinctly lower-class pursuit. Prestige – prestige was everything.
Yes, archmagery was accounted sacred – a blessed thing. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? The power it afforded – it invited envy, and over time envy became enmity, became entrenched in the culture. It was respected outwardly, but reviled inwardly. No, archmages weren’t liked. Archmages weren’t trusted. Especially the ones who donned the mask. It might’ve been different if he’d gone with the Magisterium in the first place.
Then I would’ve had to take orders.
Lyferin chuckled to himself. No, this set-up with the Night’s Guardians was far preferable. A constant stream of platinum to top-up to his income. A way to channel his particular talents for cruelty into a positive outlet.
A share of a dragon’s hoard.
His anti-enchantment defences would need renewing soon, and that’d cost him. The eldritch protections he enjoyed were nothing in comparison to the protections offered by an archmage. He was nowhere close to skilled-enough at the art to do it himself, despite his Maginox schooling in the subject, and he was reticent to trade favours with an enchanter-champion at the Gathering. He’d rather pay full price than get it cheap and risk exposure. It would mean taking his runic bracelet and mask off in front of an arch-enchanter – one at a time, of course. But doing it in front of a champion? It would still mean running the risk of having them tampered with – and even if he occluded his face with his powers while it was bared, it would risk a telepathic intrusion right then and there if his bracelet’s clasp chose that very moment to snap. Anything could go wrong, at any time. A malicious diviner could take advantage of any radically-unfeasible opportunity and he’d never see it coming.
He had to be careful.
There were none of the champions whom he could trust with his identity. Neverwish? He’d never liked the miserly creature. Lovebright? Bah; she was Timesnatcher’s pet. All of them, all of them unsuitable. Ghemenion and three magisters were the only officials to know who he was, and that secret was locked away in their heads. The registries were sealed, and unless he was suspected of a heinous crime his name would never even be looked at. Besides, he didn’t have anything to worry about with the four who knew his identity – none of them could read his mind with a glance.
Perhaps there were champions he could’ve trusted with his name, his face – only they didn’t know whether they could trust him, and wouldn’t unmask before him for just the same reasons. In any case, they could hardly be permitted to find out about his… habits. He had joined with a few rhimbelkina for the express purpose of shielding him from diviners, wasting precious inner-space on them despite their low potency in other areas. At least those old books that said no arch-sorcerer could join with more than eight or nine eldritches were way off. He shouldn’t have let the texts written by stupid, lesser men worry him. He was already past that point, and nothing told him he had to stop soon.
Even if secrecy were a double-edged sword, you didn’t have to fall upon it. He had ways and means. They didn’t need to know he was Lord Shadow Lyferin Othelroe to know he could be relied upon in battle. In a fight, he trusted Leafcloak, who was almost like a mother to him these days. He even trusted Timesnatcher, the slipperiest diviner to ever don the champion’s mantle, to have his back. Direcrown was Lyferin’s lackey, his living minion.
And he had been friends with Hellbane, as a brother-in-arms, before…
But I wasn’t really responsible, was I? I loosed the wheel at the top of the hill – I didn’t make him stand in its path.
The memory was uncomfortable.
“Proceed,” he said at last.
Ghemenion leaned forward in his leather-bound chair, putting his elbows on the table. “There’s something else you need to know. This dragon is Ord Ylon, descended from Ord Yset himself.”
Lyferin opened his mouth to voice one of a number of obvious retorts to this, but despite the covering of his mask Ghemenion knew he was about to interject, and raised a hand –
“We have this from the dragon’s own lips, and he is… well, if I say quadruple the size of the only other dragon I’ve ever seen with my own eyes, I fear I’d be selling him short.”
“He is huge,” Rala said plainly, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve while she stared at him.
“An Ord, in truth?” Lyferin felt his irritation beginning to evaporate. Perhaps there was something to this after all. A deed to be accomplished that would endure any stain of reputation. “When do we leave?”
Ghemenion started rattling off logistical details; Lyferin let his brain absorb the information while most of his mind wandered. He’d have to pack a demiskin. Two weeks there, two weeks back, probably a week in the middle actually doing the job… That’d mean missing the next Shadow Council or two. Lyferin and Redgate would have to return to the capital at different times, of course. Not that his absence would be noticed. Attendance was voluntary, and at any one time the chamber was never any more than half-full – except for when the High Council met. Almost everyone wanted to attend High Councils…
But it would have to be borne. No, Lyferin knew he’d be able to get away with his dragon-hunting excursion. He could even use his powers to speed up the timetable. It would just be a shame he couldn’t brag of his victory in front of the Arrealbord. An ancient dragon, scion of a dreadful lineage…
Was it worth leaving, so close to the next Incursion? The loss of power – measured in minions, in fame, in wealth, in reputation – would sting worse than missing ten High Councils.
So much gold… An Ord’s hoard…
He knew what he would have to do. He did it last time. He could do it again.
I could do it tonight. We can still leave on the morning tide.
He shrugged to himself, then looked across at Rala, feeling her eyes still upon him. She met his gaze.
With a sigh, Lyferin agreed to Ghemenion’s terms, then drew his velvet crimson robes about his body and excused himself.
He felt Rala’s eyes continuing to burn holes in his back as he left the room.
Does she suspect me? he wondered as he made his way to the door which would let him out onto the balcony. He knew little of Rala, but he liked the fieriness he could see in her. He could ask around… Even if she did know about him, he could tap his rhimbelkina essences, force a compact of silence upon her too. It would drain his energies temporarily – however, the effect would be permanent.
But his next mind-paralysis spell could be the one that tipped him over the edge, got him found out. He knew he ought to refrain from overplaying his hand until he had more information.
Moments later he stood at the rail, looking down on the pink-leafed trees of Roseoak Way which did not bend to the whims of winter, looked out on the towerscape of Hightown, the heart of magery in Mund, in the world.
No, she cannot suspect me, he decided. Even if she could penetrate my mask, see my face, or learn my name from her lover… she cannot penetrate my protections. She cannot see my mind.
A demon’s jagged wings, those of the wyvarlinact, no less scaly or metallic than a dragon’s, sprang out through specially-cut grooves in his robe, imperceptible when not in use. It was his fastest form of transport.
He leapt from the rail, spreading his sharp, iron-like pinions.
If she even suspected what I’m about to do, she’d be running far, far from here.
* * *