Heritage Of The Xandim

9

PORTENTS

The seasons turned, in the wildwood and the lands beyond. Winter slunk away, defeated, and the warmer days returned. On the other side of the forest and far to the south of the Phaerie realm, the city of Tyrineld, jewel of the western coast and home of the Wizards, glimmered in the bright sun of early summer. In a garden in the northern sector of the city, a magpie took off from the branches of a cherry tree in a single long glide and swooped down to land on the high wall at the bottom of the lawn. There were voices coming from the lane on other side of the wall, and the bird looked down from its perch with bright, curious eyes. Two Wizards were passing by along the narrow back street: Bards, by the cut and purple colour of their robes. One of them, the woman, had fastened her robe at the neck with a glittering amethyst and silver brooch that the magpie, attracted by the flash and sparkle, eyed acquisitively.

‘I thought this was a short cut,’ the man was complaining. ‘You haven’t managed to get us lost in these back streets, have you? I haven’t the faintest idea where we are.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the woman replied. ‘We’re nearly there. This is the back of that blind girl’s house.’

The magpie lifted off from the wall and glided down low over the couple, depositing a large splattering dropping on the woman’s head with a derisive cackle. Leaving curses and howls of disgust behind it, it turned and flew back up the garden, where a young woman, with a strong-boned face and abundant dark hair that carried a smouldering crimson spark in the sunlight, was seated beneath the cherry tree.

Iriana held out a hand and let the magpie perch there as she stroked its shining, iridescent black head. ‘That’ll teach them, won’t it?’ she said, switching her vision from the bird’s eyes to the eyes of the cat who sat on the table beside her. There was a brief instant of darkness, then the world took on an entirely different perspective as Iriana moved from avian vision to feline. ‘Blind indeed,’ she snorted. ‘That’s all they know.’

The Archwizard Cyran sat in the topmost chamber of his tower, all his attention fixed on the silver mirror that rested on the table before him. The images from his scrying had faded, leaving only his own reflection: dark eyes and a bony nose in a long, mobile face lined with laughter and sorrow, all framed by his mane of silvering dark hair. The memory of the events he had just witnessed, however, was burned deep into his mind. Again! He clenched his fists until the fingernails bit into the palms. How many more times would he be tormented by the same dreadful vision? Shuddering, he rose from his chair and rubbed his eyes, as if to wipe away the lingering images he had seen in his mirror.

After a moment, the familiar room came back into focus: a spacious octagonal chamber with a floor of dark wood that had been burnished to a rich glow, and dark beams on the ceiling, carved with twining flowers and vines. The walls, painted a warm shade of cream, were obscured by bookshelves overflowing with volumes and racks of scrolls, diagrams and maps pinned in any available space, and cabinets containing all sorts of paraphernalia including a selection of wines and the ingredients for several sorts of tea, including taillin, a fragrant drink made from the leaves of a bush that grew locally, which was the staple stimulant of the Wizardfolk. There was a desk and a long table that could be used for work, or eating, or meetings and conferences, and the north-western wall had a fireplace which, during these summer days when a fire was not necessary, contained an illusion of flickering flames. Golden light flooded in through the four great floor-to-ceiling windows with their broad, balustraded stone balconies that looked out north, south, east and west over Tyrineld.

Cyran poured himself a goblet of crimson wine. Gripping the cup with both hands to offset the slight tremor in his fingers, he drank deeply, as if in hope that the welcome warmth could counteract the chill of fear that settled in his heart whenever the visions appeared. In an attempt to calm himself, he turned his back on the table with its silver mirror, walked across to the eastern window and looked out at his home.

The city hugged the coastline around two deep coves defined by three promontories, with the bay to the south encompassing both the seaport and the mouth of the Tyrin River. At various locations around the bays were the eight Luens, spacious complexes of elegant old buildings, centres of learning and excellence that covered every aspect of Wizardly life. Ariel’s Tower, the soaring edifice housing the Archwizard and his administrative staff, was perched above the seaport on a high, rocky cape. Occupying a similar position on the northern promontory was the Luen of the Academics, the centre of Wizardly knowledge and learning. The Luens of the Healers and the Spellweavers were also located there, whereas the Bards, including the artists and weavers of tales, had gravitated to the long, narrow cape to the south, building their Luen there and colonising the crumbling old mansions which had once, before the district fell out of fashion, been the homes of the merchants who berthed their vessels on the opposite side of the bay.

The southern bay was thronged with ships, its extensive docks swarming with Wizards, mostly sea captains or the richly robed merchants, whose Luen was nearby. The humans were even more numerous: the fishermen, the lowly ships’ crewmen and the half-naked stevedores unloading cargo. This was the commercial area of the city, with its countless shops and markets, and the Luen of Artisans was also near the centre. The Luen of Warriors, however, was set apart from the others, high on the slopes above the city’s outskirts.

Around the bays, Tyrineld had expanded into a tangle of narrow streets lined with beautiful snow-white houses that embraced the tranquil blue ocean and climbed the hillsides beyond. The Wizards’ homes were interspersed with trees, parks and gardens that were a mass of blooms in any season of the year. The city was old, its stones steeped in history and learning and peace. It looked as though it would last for ever. Until the dreadful day two years ago when the visions had first appeared, Cyran had always believed it would.

It had begun with such a small thing - the Archwizard had misplaced a book and, having turned his study upside down, he’d suspected that he’d left it behind when he had been reading in the garden the previous day. Too busy (or too lazy, if he was being honest) to go and hunt for it, he had prepared his silver mirror and sat down at the table to scry for the lost volume. Once he’d found it, a small apport spell would soon have it back where it belonged.

Holding the image of the book in his mind, Cyran had gazed into the shimmering glass. Sure enough, it was in the Academy gardens, lying on his favourite bench among the willows by the ornamental lake. He tutted to himself. The Great Library of Tyrineld was the most extensive collection of knowledge and wisdom in the entire civilisation of the Magefolk. Its contents were a trust handed down through each generation of Wizards, and the careless mishandling of one of the precious tomes by the Archwizard himself was hardly setting a good example. Sharalind, the Chief Archivist, tall and stern, with brown hair that was never quite tidy and an arresting, high-cheekboned face, was the most feared and formidable being in the entire city - and, incidentally, Cyran’s consort. She would have his hide if she found out.

Hurriedly, Cyran had banished the scrying. With a negligent snap of his fingers, he apported the missing volume back to his desk and gave the dew-spotted leather covers a hasty wipe with his sleeve. As he did so, his eye was caught by a flash of colour in the silver mirror. He turned towards it, with a frown that was a mixture of puzzlement and irritation. He hadn’t lost control of a scrying since his student days. Then he saw that the images in the glass had changed. Frozen with horror, unable to tear his eyes from the dreadful scenes before him, he watched the destruction of his beloved city, and saw the entire Magefolk civilisation tear itself apart in bloody conflict.

The visions had come to an end in profound darkness, as though night had fallen on the era of the Magefolk. For a long time, Cyran had simply sat, his face in his hands, unaware that tears were leaking between his fingers. Then suddenly he straightened, and wiped the salty drops from his face. Leaping to his feet, he hurled the mirror out of the open casement, and heard it shatter into jagged splinters on the flagstones of the courtyard below. Shuddering, he closed the window with a bang. The warning had been well taken. The catastrophe had not happened yet. Maybe it could be averted altogether. At any rate, there would be time to prepare.

And there had been time, Cyran thought, bringing his mind back to the present. In the two years since the first of the visions had come upon him, he had been working tirelessly to make provision for the worst. His first action had been to warn the leaders of the other Magefolk races - the Dragonfolk, the Winged Folk and the aquatic Leviathan - for the calamity he’d witnessed had threatened to destroy them all. At first they had taken him seriously, but two years later the world seemed to be continuing on its tranquil, ordered course, and Cyran could sense that doubts were beginning to creep in. Their main objection lay in the fact that so far, he had been the only one to see these visions. Surely, they argued, if he had experienced a true foretelling, then they should also have received a similar warning. Cyran hoped with all his heart that they were right. Nonetheless, he felt compelled to persist, though the other leaders had insisted that he keep the information to himself for the present, to avoid spreading unnecessary panic among the Magefolk races.

The Archwizard, however, had continued to lose sleep over the horrendous possibilities that seemed to lie in his people’s future. At first the dread visions had returned every time he attempted to scry in crystal or mirror, but to his frustration they kept coming as brief, disconnected glimpses of war and terror, none of which gave him any clues as to when, why or how this cataclysm might take place. If only he could know how much time remained for his people and the other Magefolk races to prepare.

One of his main concerns was the amount of magical knowledge and lore that might be lost forever if the disaster happened, plunging Magefolk civilisation back into a primitive age of barbarism. Eventually, he had asked his fellow leaders for permission to send three of his brightest and most trusted young Wizards, one to each of the other three Magefolk races, to learn what they could of the other disciplines of magic. This had caused an uproar among the others. Nothing like it had ever been tried before, and the consensus of opinion seemed to be that it was impossible for a Mage of one race to learn the magic of another. If, however, Cyran was right, and such a thing could be accomplished after all, then they were reluctant to give away the many secrets of their lore.

Eventually, however, the Archwizard had worn them down. His three carefully selected delegates had been away for almost a year now, ostensibly just to learn and study, as none of them, and none of their hosts apart from the Archmages, had been told of Cyran’s vision of the cataclysm to come. The Magefolk leaders had made the secrecy a firm condion of the plan, as they were reluctant to spread panic amonst their people on the strength of a vision - and one not even their own.

Yinze was in Aerillia, city of the Winged Folk; Ionor, using specially created spells to allow him to breathe underwater, travelled beneath the sea with the mighty Leviathan; and Chathak had gone to the far south-lands, across the Jewelled Desert to the Dragonfolk in Dhiammara. So far, much to Cyran’s disappointment, none of the other leaders had sent delegates to one another, or to the Wizards in Tyrineld. If only even one of them could experience the ghastly visions he had seen, it would be another matter, but until that happened, they still continued to doubt; though they were willing to go along with his wild schemes for the sake of respect and old friendship - so far, at least.

That was only the beginning. What about the lore of his own people? Would there be any way to protect the knowledge and wisdom laid down through many generations, and preserve it for any Wizards of the future who might survive the evil times ahead? He had pondered long and hard, trying to think of ways to minimise the damage, until finally he had the good, and long overdue, idea of stretching his promise to the other leaders and involving Sharalind in his deliberations. In truth, he had no choice. His consort, determined to get to the root of the sleepless nights he fondly imagined he’d been hiding from her, his constantly worried expression and his sudden attacks of absent-mindedness, had bearded him in his tower late one night, put a locking spell on the door, poured wine for them both and had refused to let him leave until he told her what was troubling him, giving him no quarter until he finally surrendered.

On hearing his tale, Sharalind had put down her cup on the overloaded desk and crossed to the fireplace, where she’d stood gazing into the flames for so long that Cyran began to be concerned. He looked at her dear face, which others seemed to find so stern, her untidy robes and the tousled brown curls escaping from their knot at the back of her head. What was she thinking? He had never managed to work that out in all their years together. All he could do was wait patiently for her response. ‘I wish you’d told me this before,’ she said eventually.

‘I wish I had, too. And I would have, but the other Magefolk leaders made me promise not to tell anyone. Forgive me, love.’

She turned to him with a wry smile and took his hand. ‘Ah, but there lies your biggest mistake: telling the other leaders before you had told me. You idiot. Think of all those sleepless nights you could have saved yourself—’

‘You knew about those?’

‘Of course I did.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Anyway, thank goodness you’ve had the sense to confide in me at last. I hate to think of what you’ve been putting yourself through, trying to bear this burden alone.’

‘But as Archwizard, the burden is mine to bear,’ Cyran protested. ‘It isn’t fair of me to lay it on your shoulders too.’

‘To be sure, the whole business is dreadful beyond words, and it scares the daylights out of me,’ Sharalind admitted soberly. ‘All the same, I would rather know what we are up against than remain in blissful ignorance until the blow falls. And at least this way, I can help you prepare for the worst.’

‘As Chief Archivist, you have responsibilities enough of your own, without taking on mine.’

She cast her eyes up to the heavens. ‘But Cyran, my love, as Chief Archivist I’m exactly the person you should be asking. I know more about the preservation of our lore than any other living Wizard. Furthermore, this should not stop at just me. Wizards cannot live on magic alone, and there are other measures we should be taking in case of war. There are several other people you should be consulting: the Heads of the Healers and Merchants, for a start, so that food and medicinal herbs can be preserved and stockpiled. What of the Artisans and Spellweavers, also? If war is coming, their contribution will be important. And what about Esmon? He ought to be told, if anyone is.’

‘You know very well how I feel about Esmon.’ There was a thin, sharp edge of anger in Cyran’s voice. ‘To begin with, he thinks I’m a weak Archwizard, and that he ought to take my place. And if that weren’t enough, he and his self-styled Warriors are a danger to us all, with their notions of using magic for martial purposes.’

‘I know, and I agree with you. Indeed, these visions you’ve been having prove your point that magic is far too powerful a tool ever to be used in war. But my love’ - she reached out and touched his face gently with her fingertips - ‘don’t you see that your visions are telling you that it will happen, and probably in our lifetime? Otherwise why should you be the one to receive these warnings? Someone or something is going to set this dreadful business in motion, and magic is clearly going to be used, whether we like it or not. And if we don’t reciprocate in kind, we’ll be utterly overwhelmed. Also, if you take him into your confidence and include him in your plans, Esmon is far more likely to work with you, rather than against you - and we need all the help we can get. We must take this opportunity to make ourselves as ready as we can be to withstand the onslaught, and Esmon is the Head of the Warrior Wizards.’

Cyran realised that his soulmate was right. From that time onward, as well as insisting on monthly conferences for all four Magefolk leaders, he had, without telling his other three counterparts, let the Heads of all eight Luens of Tyrineld in on the secret, and had started to hold regular meetings with them to plan, as best they might, for a future that seemed to be filled with dread and doubt. One of those meetings had been scheduled for today, but Cyran had cancelled it. He had certain plans of his own that he wanted to put into action first, and he hoped to act with swiftness and secrecy so that that none of them would have a chance to argue and object - as they inevitably would.

Thoughts of meetings brought Cyran’s mind back to the scheme that he was so carefully keeping secret from his deputies. Certain happenings to the north of the Wizardly realm had begun to cause him grave concern. After the attack on the Wild Hunt by renegade slaves the previous winter, the Phaerie had started to make raids further and further south to pursue their revenge. He was now receiving reports from the northern frontier town of Nexis that the Hunt had, on several occasions, crossed the border, and slain mortals who had been carrying out legitimate tasks of forestry and planting for their Wizard masters. Such depredations could not be allowed to continue, but Cyran knew he must act with great caution. Were these Phaerie raids the first skirmishes in a greater war - or had his visions caused him to exaggerate the danger in every trivial happening?

The sound of feet pounding up the stairs interrupted his deliberations and heralded the arrival of Avithan, Cyran’s son, who came bursting into the room in his usual reckless fashion, giving the impression that he had too many things to do and not enough hours in which to do them. Avithan had recently succeeded to the position of Head of the Luen of Spellweavers, where he could finally indulge his passion - the invention of clever spells intended to make life easier for the Wizards in a whole variety of ways. The trouble was that the Wizardfolk in general, including Cyran himself, had little use for this very practical, unobtrusive form of magic. What was the point, he’d argued with his son, when they had mortal slaves to perform all the menial tasks?

Avithan, however, had remained undeterred. ‘Most of us are becoming far too dependent on mortals,’ he replied. ‘How can such a thing be healthy? What would happen to the Wizards if our race were ever to be thrown onto our own devices? We should be able to take care of ourselves.’

‘Oh, come now,’ Cyran had scoffed. ‘How likely is it that a tribe of ignorant, short-lived primitives with no magic would ever gain the power to govern themselves? Mortals were born to be slaves, and that’s the end of it.’ And as that was also the consensus of opinion among the other Wizardfolk, Avithan had found himself very much on his own. He didn’t let that bother him in the slightest, however, and continued with his innovations undeterred by scepticism and scorn. And while people might scoff at his theories on the mortals, they were quite happy to make use of his spells when it suited them. Much as he disagreed with Avithan’s unlikely notions about the slave race, Cyran had to admire his son’s determination and convictions. Avithan had earned the powerful position of Head of a Luen through his own abilities and hard work, and he was determined to run things his way.

If their disagreements had been limited to such minor matters, all would have been well, but unfortunately Avithan was opposed to his father over something far more serious. When Cyran had revealed his visions to the Heads of the Luens, the result had not been what he had expected. Instead of pulling together to face the threat, as he had hoped, the Luens had become divided. Some of them backed the Archwizard in his determination to avoid such a conflict at all costs. The others had suggested: ‘What if the visions show that war is inevitable? It’s vital that we prepare for that contingency.’ They were pressing to be permitted to fashion a weapon of power with which they could defend themselves, and there were those among the leaders of the other Magefolk races who agreed with them.

To Cyran’s chagrin, Avithan had joined the opposing faction, and there was now a coldness between son and both parents that had never been there before. To make matters worse, the Archwizard knew perfectly well that the young man had inherited the tenacious stubbornness of both Sharalind and himself; though it pained him to distrust his own flesh and blood, he felt a distressing suspicion that Avithan and his Spellweavers, together with the Warrior and Artisan Luens, might actually be working in secret on the project to develop a weapon. So far, however, they had been very careful to cover any traces of such seditious activities, and Cyran was left wondering whether he was wise to harbour such doubts, or whether he was being shamefully unfair to his son.

Today Avithan erupted through the doorway as though he had a pack of fiends behind him. He looked his usual untidy self, with his long, dark hair tousled and slipping out of the thong that held it back from his face. His dark-green robes, though clean enough, were wrinkled, spelling out to the observant eye that they’d been carelessly thrown down on a chair the previous night, and put on again without a second thought this morning. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’ His smoky grey eyes took in the sight of his father all alone and widened with surprise. ‘Where is everybody?’

‘Well, for one thing, you must have mistaken the time. The meeting isn’t due to start for an hour. But that doesn’t matter in any case because I’ve cancelled it for today, and the others won’t be coming.’

‘Cancelled it? Why did you do that? Has something happened? If there’s no meeting, why am I here?’

‘Because I want to speak to you in private.’

Avithan made a wry face. ‘All right, Father. What have I done this time?’

Cyran ignored the question. ‘First of all, will you find Iriana and fetch her here? This matter concerns you both.’

‘Iriana? But . . . Listen, if this is about what she said to you yesterday, she didn’t really mean it, Father. She just gets so frustrated, that’s all. She wants to travel so much, and she was desperately disappointed when you passed her over last year in favour of Yinze and the others.’ Avithan gave his father a hard look. The appropriate response to Cyran’s visions was not the only matter over which the two of them disagreed. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘this is very unfair to her. As far as we are aware, she’s the only one of all the Magefolk whose powers encompass all four of the elements of magic, instead of just the one. She’s certainly the only Wizard, and if the Leviathan and Dragonfolk and Skyfolk have anyone equally talented, they’ve never mentioned it—’

‘That doesn’t mean a thing,’ Cyran interrupted. ‘We haven’t told them about Iriana, and equally, they might not have mentioned any of their own people who have been similarly blessed.’

‘And you know what I think about that.’ Avithan gave his father a reproving look. ‘Considering the gravity of those visions of yours, it’s sheer folly for the Magefolk leaders to go on as they have done, sitting on their little secrets like a bunch of old hens in a roost.’

Cyran shrugged. ‘I’m sure the Magefolk leaders will be very sorry to hear that they have disappointed you,’ he said drily. ‘Stay out of matters that aren’t your business, Avithan.’

‘Iriana is my business,’ Avithan replied. ‘She’s my friend. And stop trying to change the subject, Father. I know that under the circumstances it would be out of the question for her to join Ionor beneath the ocean, but would it really hurt to let her visit one of the others in Aerillia or Dhiammara?’

‘Apart from the very practical problems she would face because of her blindness, Iriana is unique among our people because of her abilities. It would be sheer folly to risk her by sending her so far from home. Now stop trying to second-guess me, Avithan. Just go and fetch her.’ Then Cyran saw the unhappy expression on his son’s face, and relented a little. ‘Don’t worry. This has nothing to do with her little outburst yesterday, and I’m not sending for her to reprimand her, even though she may be the first person in history who has ever referred to their Archwizard as a pig-headed old nincompoop - to his face, at any rate.’ He tried to look stern, then gave up the unequal battle. ‘I can understand her frustration, believe me. That’s why I allow her a little more leeway than I would other folk.’

‘So why do you want to see her?’ Avithan asked curiously.

‘Mind your own business. I want to see the two of you, not just Iriana, and you’ll find out the reason soon enough. Tell her I want to talk to her, and bring her back here. Go on, don’t stand around. Oh, and while you’re over there, will you inform your mother that the meeting is cancelled?’

‘So that you don’t have to?’

‘Exactly,’ Cyran replied. ‘Tell her I’m busy just now, but I’ll explain tonight.’

Avithan shrugged. ‘I’ll do my best, but frankly, I can’t see her curiosity holding out for that length of time. May I use the bridge?’

‘Of course. You don’t need to ask. You may have created it for the convenience of your aged parents, but it was your invention. Be my guest.’

‘Thanks.’ Avithan stepped out of the tall northern windows and onto the balcony beyond, shutting the doors of glass behind him. Only when his son was safely out of sight did Cyran allow himself to smile. Ever since he had sent away Yinze, Ionor and Chathak last year, Iriana had been a thorn in his flesh with her restlessness and her longing to travel. For a number of reasons, he had been forced to deny her wishes, and watch with concern as she became increasingly frustrated and unhappy. Today, however, he had a surprise for her. Her wishes were about to be granted - but not in the way she expected. His decision had not been taken lightly, but he had been forced to overcome his misgivings because she had talents he needed at this time. He only hoped that he was doing the right thing.