Mage's Blood

34

Revealed

Sorcery: Wizardry

The greatest of all Studies. Once you master Wizardry, you have mastered every aspect of the gnosis, for there is nothing you cannot do. Nothing!

GILDEROY VARDIUS, WIZARD, PALLAS 846

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

Junesse 928

1 month until the Moontide

Torsdai, 4 Junesse 928

A dull rapping roused Alaron from his reverie and a few second later, the hatch opened and Ramon flew down the stairs, looking anxious in the pale blue glow of Alaron’s gnosis-light. ‘Dim that, you idiot,’ the Silacian snapped.

Alaron released his gnosis-light, only for Cym to call out irritably, ‘Hey, who put out the light?’ He rolled his eyes and lit the candles with a flourish of his hand.

Ramon wrinkled his nose. ‘Sol et Lune, it stinks in here.’

Alaron scowled. ‘You try living in it,’ he grumbled. He watched Cym clamber down and look around warily. ‘How long has it been? How many weeks?’

‘Don’t be silly, Alaron, it’s only been a couple of days – and it’s not like you’re in a prison cell.’ She grabbed Ramon’s sleeve and they both shuffled guiltily. ‘Uh, we need to tell you something.’

‘What?’ he demanded suspiciously as his friends looked at each other sheepishly. ‘What?’

Cym stepped forward. ‘Well, it’s like this. We’ve had to tell someone about our little problem.’

‘What?’

‘Stop saying that and calm down. It’s for the best. We didn’t have any choice anyway.’

‘What have you done? This is our secret, for Kore’s sake—’

‘Well that’s rich, coming from the fool who left his identity all over the theft of Vult’s files,’ snapped Ramon. ‘Do you want to live down here for the rest of your life, or do you want some help in getting out?’

Alaron stared at them, feeling like the ground had been cut away from his feet. ‘Who have you told?’ he asked weakly.

His friends looked at each other apprehensively. ‘It’s for the best,’ Cym repeated. She glanced up at the hatch, and Alaron realised it was still open. ‘It’s okay,’ she called hoarsely, and two booted feet descended, bearing a cloaked man who lowered his cowl to reveal blond locks tumbling over a chiselled face.

‘Muhren?’ Alaron spat. ‘You told Jeris Muhren – what the Hel are you thinking? He works for Vult, you idiots—’

The watch captain waved a hand, closing the hatch, and said calmly, ‘Actually, I don’t. I serve the law and the city of Norostein.’

‘Ha! Everyone knows the Watch is in the governor’s pocket.’ Alaron glared at his friends. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this.’

Cym tried to put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off angrily. ‘Alaron, he came to the house when I was there with your mother. He has Tesla in his protection and he’s hidden us from Vult. Vult is furious with him—’

‘How do you know that?’

She frowned. ‘Alaron—’

‘You don’t know, do you? You’ve only got his word – they’re probably working together, and now he knows exactly where we all are. I suppose you’ve told him everything—’

Muhren wasn’t listening; a cone of gnosis-light had bloomed in his hand and was washing over a blinking Jarius Langstrit. ‘By the Kore, it’s true! You’ve found him …’ He fell to his knees, seizing the general’s hand. Langstrit watched him, his face blank. ‘General Langstrit, command me, sir – how may I serve?’ They were startled to see a tear in the captain’s eye, but Langstrit stared back at Muhren incuriously, his expression utterly blank. ‘Do you not remember me, sir? Muhren, Battlemaster, third cohort of the Ninth—’

The old man didn’t react at all and finally Muhren looked at Alaron. ‘Is he—?’

‘I told you, he doesn’t remember anything,’ Cym said, slightly impatiently. ‘Men never listen.’

Muhren bowed his head, then stood, his eyes on Langstrit. ‘You won’t understand what this means to me, but during the Revolt General Langstrit saved us so many times. He and Robler were our banners; they were miracle-workers. For most of the Revolt we were outnumbered ten to one or worse, but we always came through. They knew the name of the least soldier, especially Old Jari. We loved him – we still love him. It’s eighteen years, but it seems like yesterday …’ He blinked hard. ‘We thought he was dead, and now you’ve found him.’ He looked at Cym. ‘I confess, I did not really believe what you told me.’

Ramon walked to one side. ‘Jarius,’ he called softly, and the general turned and looked at him. ‘He hears when people say his name,’ Ramon told Muhren. ‘It’s built in to what he did to himself.’

Muhren stared. ‘How do you mean, “What he did to himself”?’

While Ramon quietly explained their guesses about Langstrit, Cym put a hand on Alaron’s arm. ‘Look, I know you don’t like it, but in the end it was Vult or Muhren. I asked your mother and she said we could trust him. Without him, we’re going to get caught. Vult is back – he’s already raided Father’s caravan. Only the captain can protect us.’

Alaron sat down and put his head in his hands. ‘This was our quest – ours. We found the general. He needed help and we gave it. Even assuming you’re right and Muhren isn’t really in Vult’s pocket, you’ve given away control of the whole thing.’ He jabbed a finger at Muhren. ‘What’s he going to do if we do find you-know-what? Let us walk away? I don’t think so—’

‘Would Langstrit?’ Ramon replied. He exhaled heavily. ‘Face it, Al, someone’s going to come after it. At least the captain has a testified history of human decency.’

‘He believed my thesis, and he’s been watching me ever since,’ Alaron snarled. He looked at Muhren. ‘You’ve been spying on me, thinking I’ll lead you to the damned Scytale so you can restart the Revolt.’

Muhren raised a placatory hand. ‘Enough! Let me explain myself before you unleash that famous Anborn temper, Master Mercer.’ He looked about the circle of faces. ‘Yes, I know what you hunt. And I presume you all know something of me: I’m a half-blood and I fought in the Crusades – and in the Revolt. I am loyal to my king and country. We did well, for a time, but then the emperor put Kaltus Korion in charge, and Korion targeted the people, knowing we couldn’t protect everyone. The outlying farms went first, then the villages and towns: there were massacres, looting, kidnappings and all the rest – poisoned wells, torture, forced starvation. The promised aid never came. Whenever we fought the enemy we were still winning, but there were many more of them and the odds kept lengthening. In the end, we lost, but we also formed a bond. We who fought that Revolt are bound by suffering.

‘Maybe you are old enough to remember the years that followed? The bread queues and shortages; bartering for food because we had no coin, and the parades of the defeated, wrapped in chains, headed by our own king. I was one of those paraded: I could show you the lash-scars on my back. Emperor Constant made an example of us. So it’s fair to ask: do I just want to start another war?

‘The answer is complex: do I want Noros to stand free and independent? Of course I do. Do I hate the Rondian throne and wish to see the power of Pallas broken? Of course. But would I plunge my own land, only eighteen years on, with our manpower weak and our farms and commerce barely beginning to recover, back into conflict? No. Absolutely not.’

He looked at the general. ‘If someone handed me the Scytale of Corineus, what would I do? Ever since I heard Alaron’s thesis I have been wondering that. I would like to think that I would hide it again, for a time, until our land was stronger, and then I would gather trustworthy men, men of honour and virtue, and we would make it our Crusade to rid ourselves of Rondian occupation, to force Pallas to give us our independence. But not by open war. We would do it like Meiros and his Bridge-Builders. They stood apart, gathered power and gave the people their time and energy – just as I try to do in my own small way by keeping the peace.

‘But Pallas brooks no rivals. When Pallas sees a power that might challenge it, it stamps it out, whether it’s foreign or their own people. Pallas is the enemy of freedom. And I am the enemy of Pallas. To bring down Pallas cannot happen without blood. Pallas will never surrender. So in the end, there must be blood spilt.

‘You are acting for the good of the general, of course you are, but try telling me you have not dreamed of what you might do with the powers of an Ascendant? And try telling me you think Pallas would sanction it.

‘If I worked for Vult he would be here now, and he would rip the knowledge you have gained from your minds and continue the search himself. If I were such a man, I could do the same – but I am not. Vult and I are not allies; we have never been allies. He resents any man he cannot suborn or destroy, and he particularly hates those who remember his conduct in the Revolt and what he did at Lukhazan.’

They all looked at the watchman, and then at each other. ‘So what do you propose?’ Ramon asked.

Muhren considered before speaking. ‘Here is my offer. I will shield you from Vult. I will help you restore the general, and if we can do that and the Scytale is not found, we will leave it at that. My beloved general being restored would be enough. Perhaps he will even return to the public arena and cast down Vult and all he stands for, and if so, I am his man.

‘If the Scytale does come to light, then I swear that I will not attempt to claim it. In return, I would ask you to give it to the general and accept whatever reward he gives. I know him to be an honest and considerate man. If we can agree this, I will swear on whatever you wish – my honour, my periapt, or a holy book: whatever you wish. But please, let me help you.’

They fell silent for a time. Langstrit watched Muhren as if he were vaguely interesting, but there was no recognition in his eyes. Ramon scratched his ears thoughtfully, his expression neutral. Cym met his gaze placidly, apparently in agreement with the watch captain.

‘And if we don’t?’ Alaron asked.

Muhren looked up at him. ‘If you don’t want my help and you’re prepared to risk Vult on your own, what can I do? It’s not in my nature to force you. But I beg you, do not do that. Belonius Vult is like no one you have ever encountered. He was an indifferent and self-serving general, but he is a serpent when it comes to intrigues, and he is a deadly duellist. He has friends at the very top, even in Pallas – that is what this governor is: Pallas’ hand in Noros. He never forgives a slight, and his enemies do not survive long – and that includes me. As soon as my term in office is over, I will fall hard and fast. If he is aware of your search, he will find you. This will be more important to him than anything else. He has curtailed a mission in Hebusalim to be here. He knows what is at stake.’

He paused to let them absorb the warning before continuing, ‘Your father and your mother know me, Alaron; so does Cymbellea’s father. I knew your Aunt Elena – I even carried a torch for her, for a while. I beg you, please, trust me.’

Alaron felt the weight of all of their eyes upon him, even Langstrit’s. Why does it come down to me? he thought sulkily. He rubbed his face, feeling the unwashed skin, the itchy stubble. What choice do we have? We’re in over our heads already. We’re playing at treasure hunters, but the treasure will destroy us. And I can’t hide here for the rest of my life.

He thought of the humiliation of his thesis presentation. I was putting my head in the noose, and he tried to warn me off. And Gina told me he was writing letters in my support … He hung his head, then stood and offered the watch captain his hand. ‘I’m prepared to give it a chance,’ he managed to say.

Muhren stood and took his hand in his powerful grip. ‘I won’t let you down, Alaron Mercer.’ He looked at the others. ‘I hold myself bound to keep you safe and to restore the general: I swear this on my gnosis.’

Alaron, Ramon and Cym looked at each other, then Ramon gave a decisive nod and turned to Muhren. ‘Well, we’d better fill you in …’

They brought him up to date, taking him through the trail of clues they had followed, though Alaron stopped short of telling him what they’d found in the de Savioc tomb. When they reached that point in the narration, he paused and reached out tentatively for Ramon’s mind. <So, do we tell him? If he’s honest, we’ll learn pretty fast whether we’re fools or not>

<You’ve always been a fool, Al.> Ramon winked. <I don’t think we have any choice. Either we trust him or we don’t. There are no half-measures.>

Alaron spoke aloud: ‘The final clue was in a tomb the ghost-dog led us to. We think it’s the name of a daemon – we think if we summon it, it will bring the memory-crystal Langstrit constructed and hid. But before I tell you the clue, we have to agree to use it here, with everyone present.’

Muhren half-smiled. ‘Still not convinced, are you? I suppose that’s fair enough.’ He pointed to the summoning circle on the floor. ‘I’d assumed that wasn’t just decoration.’ He walked around it, peering carefully. ‘This circle has been well-drawn.’

‘Are you versed in Wizardry, Captain?’ Ramon enquired warily.

‘It is one of my strengths,’ Muhren replied.

‘I’m doing the summoning,’ Alaron blurted.

Muhren frowned. ‘Are you sure, lad?’ He raised a quizzical eye, then glanced at Cym. ‘I gather you have a periapt, but this summoning may not be an easy one. You don’t know what manner of being Jari chose.’

Alaron stood up. Have confidence. Toughen up. ‘I’m doing it.’ He glared about him.

Muhren inclined his head. ‘Very well. But you will need a further outer circle, to prevent Vult or any other mage from detecting the surge in energies created by the summoning. I can draw one of those for you, but I’m due on night watch inside the hour. Let us return here tomorrow evening, after I have completed my shift and slept. I will create the dampening circle and then Master Mercer may assay the summoning. Agreed?’

That sounded reasonable – and Alaron wasn’t ready to go ahead with the summoning, not after this new shock. ‘If you can bring some hot food, that would be even better,’ he told the captain boldly. ‘I’ve not had a hot meal for days, and neither has the general. And we need more blankets – and can you take out the slop-bucket?’

Muhren raised an eyebrow. ‘Gods, you test my patience, boy.’

Cym stepped lightly between them. ‘He annoys us all, Captain. It’s part of his charm.’

Freyadai, 5 Junesse 928

It was late afternoon when Alaron was awakened first by Cym and then Ramon arriving. They cooked the food they’d brought using Fire-gnosis and fed the general, then they sat about waiting apprehensively for the arrival of Jeris Muhren. Or Belonius Vult.

‘You trust Muhren?’ Ramon asked, munching a honey-cake.

‘I’m getting there.’ Alaron mopped his brow, sweating despite the cold air of the cellar. ‘I think he’d do anything for the general. I’m not so sure he’d do as much for us if push comes to shove.’

‘In Silacia, we say, “Have your friends to dinner, but your enemies to breakfast”. It means you should keep a close eye on them. So let’s do that, si?’

Muhren himself arrived soon afterwards, cloaked in dark wool. He went first to the general and examined him anxiously. ‘You have taken good care of him,’ he admitted, before joining the others beside the summoning circle. ‘Vult has informers in my Watch, of course, but I know who they are. It was easy enough to shake them.’ He looked at Alaron. ‘So, you are still resolved?’

‘Of course,’ Alaron said irritably.

‘Then shall we begin? I will inscribe the dampening circle.’

The young magi watched with interest as the watch captain went about his task. They’d been taught the working, but Ramon had never mastered it and Alaron had forgotten it – he’d never thought to need such secrecy. After a painstaking hour, Muhren fused the silver dust with a flash of energy and declared himself satisfied. ‘Master Mercer, the floor is yours.’

Alaron took a deep breath, glanced at Ramon for reassurance and began, ‘Okay, here’s what we learned. There is a tomb with “JL” marked on it, and then we found the words “Voco Arbendesai” inscribed underneath. We believe that is a summoning phrase for a daemon.’

‘What does Arbendesai mean?’ Cym asked.

‘It doesn’t have to mean anything,’ Alaron replied. ‘We think it’s a name – wizards give names to daemons and bind them to that name so they can be summoned over and over again. Fyrell taught us how to do it. I had one I called “Rabbit Hat”.’ He blushed slightly at the juvenile name.

‘Mine was called “Cymbellea”,’ Ramon smirked. ‘Hel, was it ugly!’

Cym flicked an insolent finger at him.

Muhren grunted. ‘“Voco” followed by a name is the standard invocation for a daemon. I agree with your interpretation. But remember, this “Arbendesai” is likely to be far stronger than the weak daemons you bound at college.’ He frowned at Alaron. ‘I do wish you would allow me to do this.’

Alaron knew the request was reasonable, but he still shook his head. ‘I’ll do it.’ He fought to calm himself: cleanse your thoughts; release all distractions, fears, anger. Be certain. Be single-minded. Be focused. The words could be applied to all of the gnosis, but most especially to wizardry, where uncertainty could be deadly.

He stepped over Muhren’s dampening circle and activated it, then stepped over the protective circle and activated it too. Though he could still pass it, a spirit could not. He was locked inside with whatever he summoned. He faced the inner circle and spoke one word: Angay, the Rune of Beginning. The lettering and lines before him ignited in a silver glow. A shaft of light rose before him, coming to a point a few yards above his head. The air suddenly smelled of burning and heat. I can do this.

Outside the summoning circles his friends were arrayed about, ready to intervene if required. Even the general was watching. His craggy face was serene, but the light caught his eyes disturbingly.

Alaron turned back to the centre. Within the central circle where the summoned spirit was to appear Alaron had placed a bowl containing water laced with his own blood, to provide a connection for his gnosis. In it lay the body of a dead crow, something for the daemon to inhabit. He held a wooden rod in his left hand to direct his energies. In his right hand was the amber periapt that Cym had given him. He exhaled thickly. Okay, let’s go.

He raised the tip of the wooden rod into the paste bowl and let gnosis energy flow. When he pulled it out, the residue smouldered on the tip of the thin piece of wood. ‘Arbendesai,’ he called softly, suffusing his voice with the gnosis to make it heard in the spirit-realm. He repeated the word, again and again, in a gentle whisper: ‘Arbendesai … Arbendesai …’

For minutes, nothing happened. He felt the others shuffling anxiously. Damn, I was so sure …

Something hissed inside the circle.

Alaron had to stop himself jumping backwards as steam began to rise from the bloody water and flowed into the body of the crow, fleshing it out. It stood suddenly, flapping its wings and flexing its legs and spine experimentally. Then it focused on him.

By Kore … He felt all the others lean in. ‘Arbendesai!’

A disembodied voice chuckled inside his head. <Who are you, fool? You’re not Langstrit.>

Alaron braced for the inevitable assault. Unseen claws latched into his brain and the world seemed to lurch, like the heaving of a boat on the ocean. A toothy face with leathery skin hissed at him and he almost fell. It’s an illusion, he reminded himself, you’re still in the circle, standing. But the tiny cellar vanished and suddenly he was in a vast ballroom at the palace. It was the graduation ceremony. The king was staring down at him, drooling. Lucien Gavius, bloated and hostile, thundered his verdict: FAILURE!

Behind Gavius were row upon row of Malevorn Andevarion, Francis Dorobon, Seth Korion, Gron Koll and Boron Funt, hundreds of each of them, all chanting, a rising crescendo: ‘Failure, failure, failure, failure…’ They marched towards him, pointing in condemnation.

He tried to blank it out, but the sound pierced his skull like knives, louder and louder. ‘Failure failure failure failure failure!’ More people joined in – his father; his mother, her blasted eyes weeping. Ramon was chanting mindlessly. Even Cym, nuzzling up to one of the Malevorns, letting him put his hands inside her blouse, kissing him as he groped her …

Failurefailurefailure …

But I didn’t fail the tests – I was rejected because of Vult. You’ll have to do better than that. He lashed the daemon with blue fire and heard it screech obscenely. ‘Submit, Arbendesai!’ he cried.

The daemon wasn’t cowed; it sent images of the batterings he had taken from Malevorn on the training ground; pictures of Cym, lewdly coupling with Malevorn; Ramon, impaled upon meat-hooks, screaming for death – anything it could think of to shatter Alaron’s concentration. He fought back, lashing it with pain, with fire, with ice. It shrieked and whined and cursed and howled, feeding him images of Tesla’s eyeballs exploding in flames, and of Vann, dead in a ditch in Verelon, until he lost his temper fully and thrashed it with a whip of gnosis-fire.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he almost leapt in fright. It was Muhren. His hand was shimmering and his voice strained by the pain of reaching into the protective circle. ‘Easy, lad. You’ve won. Don’t kill it.’

He looked down to see the crow was thrashing weakly in the muck of the summoning paste, its feathers singed and smoking. ‘Uh – oops—’ He let the gnosis-whip fade. ‘Uh – Arbendesai, do you submit?’

‘Yesh,’ the crow squawked thinly. ‘I’ve already rukking said so three times! How may I serve you, you over-enthusiastic moron?’

Ramon laughed aloud.

Alaron threw his friend a withering look. ‘You must …’ He trailed off and looked around. He hadn’t really expected to get this far. ‘Um, guys, what exactly do we want it to do?’

Ramon guffawed again. ‘Sol et Lune, you’re an amateur! We want it to bring the Memory Crystal, or give us the next clue.’

‘Yeah, we want you to—’

‘I’m not deaf,’ the crow said irritably. ‘Are those your commands?’

‘Er, yes.’

The crow gave a little bow and hopped onto the edge of the bowl. ‘I am yours to command, master,’ it said with extreme irony.

Alaron looked questioningly at Muhren, who nodded. He cautiously removed power from the protective circles, stepping back. Sometimes spirits got it into their heads to attempt to kill the summoner, even at this juncture. But the crow merely took to the air and flapped experimentally about the room, yelping as it banged into the walls. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked it at last.

‘Learning how to fly, obviously. Did you think I was a crow in the hereafter? Or before then?’

‘What were you?’ Alaron asked curiously.

‘Buggered if I can remember.’ It landed on a chair near General Langstrit. ‘This old bastard called me up eighteen years ago and gave me a name. Once I retrieve his hidden treasure I can finally get free of this damned binding and move on. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with it.’

Alaron watched it warily. ‘I’ll be scrying you,’ he warned.

‘Yes, yes,’ the bird replied tiredly. ‘It’s in both our interests for me to do what I’m told. Just let me get on with it, eh?’ Springing into the air, it flew straight at the hatch, throwing it open with its own gnosis, and soared up and out into the night.

Alaron found he was swaying and tried to fight off sudden dizziness.

Muhren clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, lad. You need to follow him mentally now, to make sure nothing interferes, and feed him energy if needed. We’ll stand guard.’

Ramon shook his hand as he sat and readied himself. ‘Well done, Al.’ He grinned. ‘That’s an interesting subconscious you’ve got. Vividly imagined.’

‘Huh?’

‘Didn’t you notice, Al? Everything that daemon hit you with was visible to us.’

Alaron replayed the mental duel in his mind. The graduation – Cym and Malevorn – ‘Oh Kore—’

Ramon sniggered. ‘An interesting insight, that’s all I can say.’

Alaron glanced at Cym, who raised an eyebrow and stared back. ‘I can explain – those aren’t things I think about … it was just trying to get under my skin—’

Cym regarded him frostily. ‘So, who was the pretty boy at the graduation? Perhaps you could arrange a meeting, if that’s the sort of thing you think I’d enjoy him doing to me?’ Her voice could have corroded metal.

‘Give him some space,’ Muhren growled. ‘A daemon uses whatever lever it can find. I’ve seen things that would turn your hair white when I’ve had to summon a daemon, and I’d like to think my conscience is largely clear. Give Alaron credit: he stood up to it. We saw less than half the battle, and he won it.’

Alaron looked at the watch captain gratefully. Then he closed his eyes and sent his awareness off after the daemon-crow as it flew through the twilight sky above the city.

Arbendesai returned within two hours, preening and puffed up. In its claws was a small pouch of damp-stained leather, encrusted with old dirt. ‘Ha – got it, no problems.’ It placed the pouch in Alaron’s hands and hopped about as if expecting a reward. ‘I would dearly love some cheese,’ it announced meaningfully. ‘I haven’t had cheese since the last time I saw the old gent in the corner. Love cheese, I do.’

Muhren checked the large quartz crystal inside the pouch and verified that it contained gnosis-energy of the correct type before Alaron fed the crow a wedge of hard cheese from his rations. When it had finished, with much smacking of its beak, he dismissed the spirit, leaving a newly fresh crow corpse lying inside the summoning circle. The others watched Muhren with equal measures of anticipation and apprehension. He was the only one of them who had seen a memory crystal before.

‘To release a memory crystal requires a linkage to be formed,’ he told them. ‘It’s going to take time and effort.’

They made sure the general was sitting comfortably, then Muhren sliced open the old man’s palm. Langstrit didn’t flinch but watched the crystal with a curious expression, as though some part of him knew what it was. Muhren folded his bloody fingers about the crystal and light flashed as he triggered a gnosis-link between the blood and the crystal, then sat back to quietly feed that link. The old man gave a sudden sigh and folded back into a prone position.

Cym stifled a cry. ‘Is he all right?’ she whispered.

Muhren checked Langstrit’s breathing and pulse. ‘He’s fine,’ he confirmed. ‘This will take hours,’ he told them, ‘and I had better return to my duties before I am missed. You’ll need to take turns to gently feed the crystal with a small but steady stream of gnosis. The light it exudes should not exceed a candle-light. Can you do that? Mistress Cymbellea, perhaps you can go first?’

Cym learned swiftly, as always. Muhren was surprised at her aptitude and strength. ‘Who was your mother, Cymbellea?’ he asked.

Cym didn’t look at him. ‘Family secret,’ she replied, the same words she always used.

Muhren grunted. He turned to Alaron. ‘This trust you demand runs both ways, Master Mercer. I expect you all to still be here when I return at dawn.’

‘We’ll be here,’ Alaron said tiredly. ‘And so will the general.’

‘Then I will go and check on what is happening in the city. Vult will not have been idle.’ Muhren left without another word. The general lifted his head to watch him go. The glow of the crystal in his hand lit his eyes and seemed to be trickling through his veins.

They took turns as Freyadai night wore on, sleeping in shifts, focused on their task. They had no idea what was happening above, whether Vult was closing in or oblivious, but the exhausting task and the need to rest afterwards kept their minds occupied and their fears suppressed. Time became irrelevant, something measured only by the heartbeat of the old man in their care.

When Muhren returned, well before dawn, Ramon was taking his turn with Langstrit while Alaron and Cym rested. The Rimoni girl was asleep, her face unguarded. She looked like a divinity to Alaron, the hardness normally present in her eyes absent.

She woke when the hatch opened, saw Alaron watching her and scowled. <What?> Her mental touch was like her hand, deft and hard.

<I was just thinking how beautiful you are when you sleep,> Alaron replied with uncharacteristic boldness.

<Idiot.> She looked away, her cheeks colouring faintly.

I complimented her and she didn’t throttle me. His heart soared.

Ramon, feeding the general some water, eyed his withered body. ‘Look at him – he’s lost nearly twenty years. It’s going to be a Hel of a shock for him when he wakes.’

‘It will,’ Muhren agreed. ‘I’ll take over now. Get some rest, lad.’

The moment came soon after: the general gave a small cry and they all crowded around him. The old man was muttering, his face jerking about, then he cried out again, as if in pain, and his eyes flew open.

‘Great Kore!’ he shouted, and looked about him wildly, his eyes desperately frightened.

Muhren reached out and grabbed his shoulders. ‘General Langstrit, sir – it’s all right – you’re with friends.’

The general stared at him, then visibly reeled. ‘Jeris Muhren, is that you? Where am I?’

‘My dear general, you are back. You’re really here – I can’t believe it.’ He pulled the old man into his arms, and Langstrit hesitantly returned the embrace before looking about him at the dimly lit faces surrounding him.

‘Muhren, who are these children?’

Alaron bowed, feeling a surge of pride. ‘Mercer, sir, Alaron Mercer. My father is Vannaton Mercer and my mother is Tesla Anborn.’

‘Tesla had a boy? Of course, you were born in the second year of the war. Great Kore, how long has it been?’ He clutched his chest suddenly and looked down at his half-naked body. A visible shock ran through him. ‘How long has it been?’

‘It is 928, sir,’ Muhren replied carefully. ‘About eighteen years.’

Langstrit’s legs gave way; only Muhren’s strength kept him upright. ‘Eighteen years,’ he whispered. ‘I never thought it would be so long. I thought three years, maybe … Eighteen – my Lord Kore—’ He looked at Alaron. ‘I know your father, boy. And your aunt.’

‘I know, sir,’ Alaron replied proudly. ‘My father speaks of you often.’

‘I’m Ramon Sensini,’ Ramon put in. ‘This is Cymbellea di Regia. It was we who followed the clues and brought you back – with the captain’s help, of course,’ he added.

Langstrit stared at them all, clearly still shaken. ‘Then I thank you, all of you – thank you, with all my heart, thank you.’ He looked down at his own body again, and a shudder ran through him. Cym draped a blanket around him and he huddled into it. He accepted food and drink, and calmed himself with visible effort. At last he said, ‘I had better hear the tale, Jens. Best I know the worst. Tell me everything.’

It was near dawn by the time Langstrit had heard the answers to his most burning questions. Though Muhren did most of the talking, filling him in on recent history and current events, the young people spoke most about the quest to restore him to himself. He grew calmer as he listened, and even chuckled once or twice as they explained how they’d found and unravelled the clues. ‘I had in mind it might be someone like your Aunt Elena following the trail, young Alaron. The multi-rune I left was primed to appear before certain people only. I only included descendants of the specific people I named as an afterthought – a fortunate afterthought, as it turns out.’ He grinned at Alaron, who ducked his head, smiling.

They all liked the general, now that his personality had emerged; his vibrant energy and gruff humour was endearing. Muhren was clearly devoted to him, and now they could see why: General Langstrit exuded leadership, and gave respect as readily as he expected it.

Finally, he declared himself satisfied, although he had grown more and more worried as they told him about Vult’s presence. Alaron tried to apologise for exposing them by stealing his file, but Langstrit waved it away. ‘Mistakes are made, lad; that’s life. We learn, we make amends.’ He turned back to Muhren. ‘Vult clearly suspects your involvement, Jens.’ He looked about the group. ‘So, the Scytale, and what to do about it.’

He took a swig of the dark beer Muhren had bought with him, his favourite. ‘The Scytale first. Young Alaron was right: Fulchius – the Noros canon – stole it and brought it to Noros the year the Revolt broke out. Fulchius had fallen out with Mater-Imperia Lucia over the Crusade, so he stole the Scytale and fled to Noros, intending to create a rival to Pallas. Robler brought me in, along with a few others, all Noros veterans of the Crusade. When we drank the ambrosia Fulchius created, Robler, Modin and I ascended; the others failed and died. Fulchius had hoped that the act of creating ambrosia and showing we were in earnest would be enough to force the Rondians to negotiate – he didn’t think Lucia would risk open war. He underestimated her.

‘By the final defeat, Fulchius and his fellow canons were dead and only Robler and I were left of our inner circle. When surrender became inevitable, we decided we had to hide the Scytale and I took it on myself, so that Robler would be genuinely ignorant of what happened to it. We had already begun to think we would have to conceal the Scytale when we were besieged here in Norostein, so I had laid the groundwork. I did my best to cover my tracks, and to set a puzzle that only a friendly party could solve. I knew I would fall into hostile hands when the eventual surrender took place – I’d anticipated that I would be taken to Pallas, but obviously Vult managed to gain control of me and hid me from Lucia. By then I had erased my own memory.’

They all reflected on this. Alaron wondered if he could have ever had the courage to do the same.

Langstrit spoke again. ‘All of this leads to an important question: what to do with the Scytale when we recover it? There are only two courses: to destroy it, or to use it. To destroy it would be wrong, I believe – for all the evil that has been wrought, the gnosis has also done much good. It’s the key to righting the wrongs of this world. Pallas will never fall of its own accord, so a stronger force must arise to eclipse it. To destroy the Scytale is to condemn us to Pallas’ domination for ever.

‘Great things can grow from small beginnings. Just as the magi sprang from a few fortunate individuals, so together we can grow something special, something vital. We must use the Scytale, carefully and seeking only the sort of mage who shares our aims. I have tried open war, and war failed. We must try something else. It will take years, but with patience, we can create a network of allies and break Pallas’ power.’

‘Give it to the Ordo Costruo,’ Cym urged, as she had once suggested to Alaron.

Langstrit shook his head. ‘They may prove to be allies in the end, but they were compromised by the Crusade and now Pallas controls them. How could we be certain that Antonin Meiros would aid us? For now we must look to ourselves and those we can trust.’

Cym frowned, looking like she wanted to argue.

‘How will we retain control of the Scytale if we go about adding others?’ Ramon asked.

‘You told me of your own pact, and I agree with it. Let we five become the new Keepers of the Scytale. Please believe me, I do not seek to cheat you, or to plunge this land into war again. I do not seek to open old wounds. I only want the opportunity presented by the Scytale to rebalance the wrongs that Pallas inflicts daily.’

Muhren was nodding as Langstrit spoke, but Alaron needed to look at Ramon for reassurance before agreeing. Cym gave her assent last of all, clearly fighting her doubts.

Langstrit gathered their hands together in the middle of the circle. ‘Let us be the Ordo Pacifica: the Order of Peace. We five shall be the Inner Circle, to stand as equals dedicated to bringing peace to Yuros. Peace shall be our banner. War will be our enemy. Are we agreed?’

Alaron felt a sense of unreality – these were the sort of things that legendary magi swore, not a motley collection of people like them. It felt pretentious. I am a failed mage, he thought. Cym is Rimoni and Ramon is Silacian. It was surreal. But here we are – and it feels right. He looked around the circle. Everyone looked so determined, and it made him feel braver.

They released each other’s hands and sat down again. It was a few moments before Langstrit spoke up once more. ‘Now we must recover the Scytale, lest we be accused of putting our cart before the horse. We have a few problems to overcome: I buried it deep, and I still have some issues to resolve regarding gnosis-workings.’ He raised a hand and, grimacing, strained to produce a very modest gnosis-fire. ‘One, I’m out of practice. Two, I’m currently bound in a Rune of the Chain, put upon me by Vult himself. Fortunately, my power after Ascending surpasses his – that enabled the instinctive use of the gnosis you tell me I occasionally displayed. And as you can see, I can still produce a little force when I try. But I must be fully unbound to be of use: I can do it myself, but in doing it, Vult will be aware of exactly where I am.’

‘Do we need to remove the Chain-rune at all?’ Ramon asked. ‘Can’t we regain the Scytale without you?’

Langstrit thought for a moment. ‘Probably, yes – recovery of the Scytale will require only moderate Earth-gnosis and Water-gnosis – and knowing where to look. As I didn’t know who would come looking, I didn’t protect it so strongly that only an Ascendant could regain it. The clues had to be enough to lead the right people to it, while keeping the wrong people away.’

‘We can remove the Chain-rune anytime,’ Muhren said. ‘What we can’t afford is to be found.’ He pursed his lips, considering. ‘Does the Scytale itself have powers that will aid us once we have it?’

The general shook his head. ‘Sadly, no. Fulchius told me the Scytale is not an artefact of intrinsic might; it’s a repository of knowledge: how to make the ambrosia in such a way that precisely suits the recipient. It is of no use in battle.’

‘So where is it?’ Alaron finally asked the question burning in his mind.

Langstrit looked up. ‘Ha! Of course, I haven’t said, have I? It’s beneath the waters of the lake in the flooded area of the Old Town. Inside the plinth of a broken statue of the king, actually. It’s inside a metal cylinder about eight inches round and two feet long, lined with lead to keep out the damp.’ He looked at them. ‘We need to get to Lower Town undetected, and one or more of us will need to go down under the waters to find it – preferably me, as I know exactly what I’m looking for.’

Lower Town was around a mile north of where they were, spread around the shores of the lake. It was a good twenty minutes’ walk through curfewed streets. Langstrit described the route carefully, and the whereabouts of the statue, in case they had to split up.

‘What are our chances of being detected along the way?’ Alaron asked.

‘Small, if you stay here,’ Ramon replied.

‘Huh?’

‘Think about it Alaron: you’re the name and face Vult knows. He can’t detect the general, Muhren can block him and he doesn’t know Cym or me – so it’s safer if you aren’t with us.’

‘But—’ Alaron stared at him in frustration.

‘I know, amici, but it makes sense. You are the rod that could bring the lightning down on us.’ He waved his hands apologetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘He’s right, Alaron,’ Muhren said. ‘Look, it doesn’t matter which of us gets it: we’re all going to share in it. We’ll only be gone an hour – and then we can work out how we’re going to get the Scytale out of Norostein.’

Alaron slumped and hugged his knees. It makes sense … but it’s not fair. He felt numb as he listened to the others getting ready, gathering their weapons, putting their cloaks back on. Langstrit, dressed in some of Vann’s old clothes Cym had found, looked much more confident now, reconciled to what had happened to him and ready to make the most of his rescue. He buckled on a sword, his face clouded by memories.

Ramon patted Alaron’s shoulder. ‘We won’t be long, amici. I promise.’

Alaron watched as Ramon led the way up the ladder, Muhren behind him.

Cym gave him a small wave and a wink. <Back in a jiffy, Alaron.>

Ramon pushed open the hatch at the top of the stairs, something twanged and the Silacian gasped and folded in half, clutching his belly as he fell backwards on top of Muhren. Alaron cried out in horror as he saw the feathered tip of a bolt protruding from Ramon’s stomach. Muhren caught Ramon, then twisted and hunched over, shielding him with his body as flames washed down the ladder.