Mage's Blood (82 page)

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.