The Written (11 page)

Ahead of him was the main city,
and from his vantage point at the gate he could see the whole of
Krauslung spread out ahead of him like an intricate carpet. The two
great mountains either side dipped and fell, giving way to a narrow
sloping valley that ended in a horseshoe-shaped harbour and the
Port of Rös with its legendary shipyards. From there the bay and
the cold Bern sea stretched out for many leagues before stumbling
across the islands of Skap in the far distance, mere dark blotches
that stretched out on the horizon like a half-drowned giant. The
Össfen mountains marched on for miles to the east and west, steep
walls warding off the bitter waves of the winter sea. The mage
could smell the tangy salt in the air and hear the plaintive hungry
cries of the gulls on the wind. He smiled.

Farden switched his attention
back to the city. It had been many months since he had been here
last and the mage had almost forgotten the impressive view. On his
right, leaning against the precipitous walls of Hardja, stood the
Arkathedral, forged from grey granite and white polished stone from
the cliff cities in the west. A great hall perched on top of the
huge hive-like building, crowned by two thin towers that stood
either side of its domed roof. These towers held the twin bells
that shared the names of the two mountains that flanked the city,
Ursufel on the left, and Hardja on the right. Farden hadn’t heard
them ring in years, the last time he did had been at the end of the
war. Like the layers of a gigantic cake, the Arkathedral spiralled
downward to the city streets, its concentric curtain walls hiding
libraries, halls, kitchens, barracks, training yards, and regal
abodes for the two Arkmages and the council members. Here was the
throbbing heart of the Arka, where the balance of magick was kept
in check and the council played out their game of chess with the
world.

The mage made his way deeper
into the valley and down into the citadel. Night was starting to
fall, and the city was buzzing. Down on the streets it was noisy;
the gutters were full of water from the winter snows and gods know
what else, people leaned out of windows and shouted to others down
in the street, while others gambled and bartered in the narrow
alleyways, merchants hawked their wares, bellowing at passers-by,
and women painted with gaudy colours whistled and grabbed at some
of the finer-looking men. Farden loved it. Here nobody paid
attention to him, he could melt into the dark alleyways and market
stalls and nobody would look twice at the shady mage. Even the
pickpocketing children ignored him, knowing better to mess with a
Written. In Krauslung everyone seemed to live on top or underneath
everyone else. The buildings of Krauslung were piled storey upon
storey, until each house or shop or tavern seemed to lean against
the next, making the streets seem like the darkened arteries and
capillaries of some immense living thing.

He finally made it onto one of
the main avenues that ran through the city, and the crowds became
thinner and slightly more civilised, and a bit more sunlight
reached the streets. He looked up at the tallest buildings, at
their stained-glass windows and their arched slate roofs, and a few
faces peered back at him. From behind the coloured glass they
sipped at thin goblets and picked daintily at tiny bits of
something in their hands. In the city, the finer citizens claimed
the upper levels. They had made social class a matter of mere
physical height.

Farden snorted and carried on,
taking it all in as he walked. He watched some of the more
established merchants relax at their stalls after a long day of
profit, smoking pipes and chewing on tough bread. Arka soldiers
stood on every corner. Their polished silver armour shined in the
last rays of early evening light. A tavern to Farden’s right
suddenly erupted with loud music as two bards, or
skalds
, rallied the patrons with loud tales of heroes
and beasts and magick. The drunken men all sang along, and several
spilled out into the streets to slam their tankards together in
flurries of brown ale. The soldiers looked on distastefully.

To his left a group of fine
ladies, their faces painted and their hair tied up high, ran gloved
hands over jewellery and ornaments at a shop window. A few of the
women had their pet geese by their side. The fat birds were
decorated in the same colours as their owners’ dresses and held on
thin velvet leashes and they honked quietly and impatiently waddled
from side to side. Farden smiled. The fashions of high society had
always seemed a bit odd to him, but after all the wishes of the
rich ladies had always commanded the coin purses of the rich men.
He caught himself staring at one of the blonder women, one who
looked a little like Cheska, but he pushed her from his mind and
kept walking. A warm feeling spread across his chest.

Shop windows called out to him
with bright colours and signs: “
Potions, Lotions
and Notions, Magickal remedies for all
”, “
Vigtor Urtt, Purveyor of Blades and Fine Weapons
”, and
“
Fine clothes for Fine women
”, accompanied
by a little wooden notice that said
no beggars
allowed
.

This was how the city was, and
more so in recent years than ever before. The poor lived below the
rich, so close and yet so far, neither crossing the gap between the
classes but willing to live in rough harmony as long as their
peaceful way of life was maintained. And that was where Farden
thought he fitted in. He was not rich, but nor was he poor, simply
somewhere in the middle, an unknown stranger ignored on the
streets. He thought himself part of the glue that held the Arka
together, a servant of the ruling magick council whose job it was
to maintain this balance, this way of life for these naïve people.
It was suddenly odd in his mind, how thankless this task was, and
yet somehow he was still so dedicated to it. If the world of magick
was a game of chess, then Farden was a pawn.

Farden headed north along
another wide street lined with houses. He fixed his eyes on the
gates of the Arkathedral fortress ahead of him and started the long
walk up the sloping street towards them.

“
See I think
those Arkmages is sneaky, why else would they keep us all out of
their pretty tower, secretive like. And you know I heard that there
Helyard bloke can change the weather? Make it rain and all that?
See now that scares me. If were up to me, I would have us people
running things, making sure we’re not up to no mischief and all.
We’re the ones who knows best.

“
What, the
war? Well that was all about gold or land or something, yeh it was
definitely about gold...”

Overheard during a conversation
in a Krauslung tavern

‘Farden!’ A loud voice rang out
through the marble corridor. The mage turned to see a familiar face
creasing with a big smile, and an outstretched hand coming towards
him.

‘Undermage, always a pleasure.’
Farden grinned and shook the proffered hand warmly and
vigourously.

‘It’s been too long Farden, too
long, and you can dispense with that Undermage rubbish, you know me
better than that,’ The Lord Vice flashed a smile that was crammed
with white teeth and clapped Farden on the shoulder.

‘I can see you haven’t changed,
still playing the politician as usual,’ said Farden. They both
laughed and carried on walking down the corridor. Vice was an old
friend and a powerful mentor to Farden, and he had known him almost
all his life, ever since he had met him at the School. Back then
Vice had been a lowly instructor, but step by step and bit by bit
he had climbed through the ranks to sit beside the two Arkmages,
the powerful Helyard and the wise Åddren. Rumour had it that Vice
was actually doing some good for the council, and Farden was
honoured to have a friend in such a high place, someone he could
trust in the upper echelons of pompous Arka society.

Vice was quite a tall man, a
good half a head taller than Farden and quite powerfully built,
rather than lanky. He had a long ceremonial knife at his hip as a
mark of his office and wore a long black and green robe that
swished lightly against the marble floor as they walked. His dull
blonde hair curled and spilled over a tall forehead that was just
beginning to show the lines of stress and age. His dark brown eyes
were warm and welcoming while his defined jaw and high cheekbones
gave him a regal air, but Farden knew the huge power that Vice hid
behind his usually calm exterior, and had seen those eyes flash
with furious magick more than a few times. If Farden remembered
correctly Vice had been one of the best at the school, and had
taught Farden many of his tricks and spells, but he wasn’t a
Written, and couldn’t begin to compare to the power of the
Arkmages

As they walked the affable Vice
threw an arm around Farden’s shoulders, steering him down the
corridor. He spoke in a low voice while a few servants passed. His
purposeful eyes flicked between the marble flagstones and the big
arched windows lining the hallway. The sun was starting to set
behind the mountains.

‘This is a dark time for us
Farden. I hope you have some good news,’ he murmured.

‘I have news, but whether it’s
good or not will be up to the Arkmages and you, Vice.’

‘The tragedy at Arfell has hit
us hard. It’s one thing to lose valuable scholars in such a brutal
murder, but to have a dangerous book taken from our safe hands is
much worse.’ Vice shook his head and clasped his hands behind his
back.

‘I agree,’ said Farden. Two
guards swung open a large door and snapped their heels together as
the two men passed. They sported short spears and circular shields,
and they wore the same green and black of the Undermage’s position.
The mage waited until they had passed through the door. ‘Whatever’s
going on, and whoever’s behind all of this, we can’t afford to
waste time.’

‘More of your good news I
assume,’ said Vice drily. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin. ‘We’d
better discuss this with the council, they’re waiting for you,’ he
pointed ahead to a wide gilded door, one that Farden had seldom
walked through. Another two guards flanked the thick doorway in
full ceremonial armour made of shiny gold and green metal. Their
shields were like mirrors and their long spears were so tall they
almost scraped the arched marble ceiling. Their golden helmets
covered their entire face, and they nodded to Farden and Vice as
they approached. Farden straightened his shoulders and cleared his
throat loudly. He tried to remember the etiquette and protocol that
Durnus had taught to him long ago, and not much came to mind.

‘Let’s go in.’ Vice motioned to
the guards and they pushed hard on the big doors. They swung open
agonisingly slowly.

Farden stepped into the great
hall and tried to keep his mouth from hanging open. It was like
stepping into a white and gold cavern, and every time he came here
it never ceased to amaze him. Marble pillars lined the room, tall
white columns carved like tree trunks so that their bases spread
over the floor like gnarled roots, and their tops flared out across
the roof like thick ivory branches, and there they entangled
themselves in the huge beams and gilded rafters that resembled the
ribs of some huge fossilised animal. Light poured through windows
that stretched from floor to ceiling, from one end of the hall to
the other, fitted with the finest stained-glass that the artisans
of Krauslung could ever hope to make. Farden watched the opalescent
light play amongst the ivory branches and golden wood, and paint
the white floor every colour he could imagine. He scanned the men
and women and places frozen forever in the patterns of the coloured
glass, their old faces emotionless and regal, staring impassively
out of the windows at their successors.

The mage kept walking and
followed Vice to the back of the great hall. Almost a hundred
people stood around them, loitering amongst the pillars and benches
clad in robes and dresses of various hues, talking in low voices
and pointing at the mage. Farden ignored them.

In the centre of the great hall
stood a statue of Evernia, surrounded by candles. Sitting at her
white marbled feet were a set of gold scales, hanging balanced and
even, the symbol of the Arka. High above her head a huge
diamond-shaped window was open to the cold sky, and the cold wind
whined across the opening. Through it Farden could see the sky
turning a dusty pink with the dying sun. A single star dared to
peek through the fading daylight and sparkle gently.

At the end of the room stood
three giant chairs, two equally-sized ones in the centre and a
smaller one to the right. Here sat the Arkmages Helyard and Åddren,
rulers of the Arka and the heads of the magick council, powerful
and wise and beyond contestation. Vice swept from Farden’s side to
take his place on the smaller marble chair. Guards stood in the
shadows between the pillars. The hooded mage stopped several feet
short of the three men on the chairs and bowed low to the ground,
sweeping back his hood as he did so. There was silence in the great
hall.

‘Welcome Farden, to the
Arkathedral. I trust your journey was swift?’ Åddren spoke first.
He was a short man, with kind blue eyes and a balding head sparsely
decorated with copses of grey hair. Åddren was thin and ageing, but
the powerful man still wore the long green and gold Arkmages robe
with pride and a strict posture. He hadn’t changed one bit since
Farden had last seen him.

‘It was, your Mage.’ Farden
rose slowly and nodded with his best courteous smile. To Åddren’s
right sat a tall man with a long sharp jaw and mahogany eyes that
roved over Farden’s clothes and apparel. For his age Helyard was
surprisingly thick-set and muscular, echoes of a long life spent on
the battlefield. He sat bolt upright and stern in his tall marble
throne, spine and jaw stiff with pale skinned hands resting on the
broad arms of the chair. Helyard’s hair was cut short and dirty
blonde in colour, with streaks of white beginning to surface
through his trimmed curly locks, like worms appearing after a heavy
rain. He had the habit of looking down his long nose at the people
he addressed, and impatiently interrupting council members he
deemed too unimportant to speak.