The High Lord (7 page)

Rothen sat in his favorite chair to one side of the Night Room and watched his fellow magicians. Every week, Guild members came to this room to talk and exchange gossip. Some remained in pairs or small circles, bound together by friendship or familiarity with others of the same discipline. Others were drawn together by family and House ties; though magicians were supposed to put aside such loyalties when they joined the Guild, the inclination to trust and distrust according to tradition and politics remained strong.

At the other side of the room sat three magicians who appeared to be engaged in anything but idle chatter. Lord Balkan, wearing the red robes and black sash of the Head of Warriors, was the youngest of them. Lady Vinara, the green-robed Head of Healers, was a stern, middle-aged woman. White-haired Lord Sarrin, the Head of Alchemists, wore his purple robes.

Rothen wished he could hear their conversation. The three had been talking energetically for an hour. Whenever anything was debated among the Higher Magicians, these three were the most vocal and most influential speakers. Between Balkan’s direct reasoning, Vinara’s compassion and insight, and Sarrin’s conservative opinions, they usually managed to cover most sides of an issue.

But Rothen knew he would never get near enough to the trio to listen without being observed. Instead, he turned his attention to closer magicians. At once his heart skipped as he recognized a familiar voice. Administrator Lorlen… somewhere behind his chair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice.

“... I understand that many of the Alchemists have been involved in long-term projects they are reluctant to put aside,” Lorlen said. “All will have an opportunity to object to their involvement in the construction of the new Lookout, but they must prove that their work will be irretrievably harmed by the delay.”

“But…”

“Yes?”

There was a sigh. “I just cannot see why we are wasting Alchemists’ time on such… such foolery.
Weather
monitoring, of all things! Can’t Davin build himself a little hut on that hill? Why a tower?” The magician objecting to the project was Lord Peakin, the Head of Alchemic Studies. “And I do not see the need for the Warriors’ involvement. Is this structure going to be for alchemic or military use?”

“Both,” Lorlen told him. ‘The High Lord decided it would be short-sighted to construct a building of this kind without considering its defensive potential. He also saw that it was unlikely that the building would be approved by the King if its use was solely for monitoring the weather.”

“Then who will design this structure?”

“That is yet to be decided.”

Rothen smiled. Lord Davin had been considered an eccentric for years, but recently his study of weather patterns and prediction had gained a little respect and interest. Lord Peakin, however, had always found Davin’s gushing enthusiasm and peculiar obsession irritating.

The discussion about the tower ended as a new voice joined the others.

“Good evening, Administrator, Lord Peakin.”

“Director Jerrik,” Peakin said. “I have heard that Sonea will not be attending evening classes now. Is this true?”

At Sonea’s name, Rothen was instantly tense and alert. And Jerrik, as University Director, oversaw all matters involving the training of novices. From this conversation, Rothen might learn about her progress.

“It is,” Jerrik replied. “The High Lord spoke to me yesterday. A few of her teachers had commented to me that she appeared to be tired and was easily distracted. Akkarin had made the same observation, and agreed to let her have the evenings free for the rest of the year.”

“What of those subjects she has already begun studying?”

“She’ll have to begin them again next year, though she won’t have to repeat any projects if she doesn’t need to. Her teachers will take into account what she has covered already.”

The voices were growing fainter. Rothen resisted the urge to look around.

“Will she be favoring a discipline?” Peakin asked. “This will make it even more necessary that she focus her efforts on one soon, or she will not be proficient in any by graduation.”

“Akkarin hasn’t decided yet,” Lorlen replied.

“Akkarin
hasn’t decided?” Jerrik repeated. “The choice is Sonea’s.”

There was a pause. “Of course,” Lorlen agreed. “What I meant by that is Akkarin hasn’t indicated to me which he’d prefer her to choose, so I’m assuming he hasn’t decided what to recommend.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to influence her in any way,” Peakin said. “Which is why he… a good grounding… before…”

The voices faded into the distance. Guessing that the magicians were moving away, Rothen sighed and drained his glass.

So Sonea had her evenings to herself. His mood darkened at the thought of her stuck in her room in the High Lord’s Residence, close to Akkarin and his evil habits. Then he remembered that she had always spent her spare time in the Novices’ Library. No doubt she would simply go there every evening now she was free of classes.

Feeling a little better, Rothen rose, gave his empty glass to a servant, then went in search of Yaldin.

Since Irand had allocated them a study room, Dannyl and Tayend had gradually added furnishings until it was as com-fortable as any nobleman’s guestroom. In addition to the large table that had once dominated the room, there were comfortable chairs and a couch, a well-stocked wine cabinet and oil lamps for reading. The lamps were also the only source of heat when Dannyl was not there. Today, however, he had set a globe of magic in an alcove in one wall, and the heat had quickly chased away the chill of the stone walls.

Tayend had been absent when Dannyl arrived at the library. After talking to Irand for an hour, Dannyl had continued on to their study room to wait for his friend. He was struggling through the records of a seaside estate in the vague hope of finding a reference to ancient magic when Tayend finally arrived.

The scholar stopped in the middle of the room and swayed, clearly a little drunk.

“Looks like you’ve been having a good time,” Dannyl observed.

Tayend sighed dramatically. “Ah, yes. There was good wine. There was fine music. There were even a few rather good-looking acrobats to admire… But I dragged myself away, knowing that I could only escape for a few sweet hours from slaving in the library for my relentlessly demanding Guild Ambassador.”

Dannyl crossed his arms and smiled. “Slaving, indeed. You’ve never done an honorable day’s work in your life.”

“Plenty of dishonorable ones, though.” Tayend grinned. “And besides, I did a little work for us at this party. Dem Marane was there—the man who might be a rebel.”

“Really?” Dannyl uncrossed his arms. “That’s a coincidence.”

“Not really.” Tayend shrugged. “I see him occasionally at parties, but I haven’t had much conversation with him since he first introduced himself. Anyway, I decided to have a chat and give him a hint that we were interested in attending his parties.”

Dannyl felt a stab of alarm. “What did you say?”

Tayend waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing specific. I just commented that his invitations had stopped once I’d started, assisting you, then I looked cautious, but interested.”

“You shouldn’t have…” Dannyl frowned. “How many times have you had these invitations?”

The scholar chuckled. “You sound jealous, Dannyl. Only once or twice a year. Not invitations, really. He just hints that I’m still welcome to attend his parties.”

“And these hints stopped when you started assisting me?”

“Obviously he’s terribly intimidated by you.”

Dannyl paced the room. “You’ve just hinted that we’ve guessed what he and his friends are up to. If they are as involved as Akkarin says, they’ll take even the slightest hint of danger seriously.
Very
seriously.”

Tayend’s eyes widened. “I just… sounded interested.”

“That is probably enough to send Marane into a panic. He’s probably considering what to do about us right now.”

“What will he do?”

Dannyl sighed. “I doubt he’ll wait around to see if the Guild comes to arrest him. He’s probably considering ways to silence us. Blackmail. Murder.”

“Murder! But… surely he’d know I wouldn’t have approached him if I was going to turn him in? If I was going to turn him in I’d just… turn him in.”

“Because you only suspect he’s a rebel,” Dannyl replied. “He’ll be expecting us to do exactly what we’re planning to do—pretend to want to join them in order to confirm our suspicions. That’s why Akkarin suggested we give him something to blackmail us with.”

Tayend sat down and rubbed his forehead. “Do you really think he might try to kill me?” He cursed, “I just saw an opportunity and, and…”

“No. If he has any sense, he won’t risk trying to kill you.” Dannyl leaned against the table. “He’ll be finding out as much about us as possible, considering what is precious to us. What he could threaten to harm. Family. Wealth. Honor.”

“Us?”

Dannyl shook his head. “Even if he has heard rumors, he would not rely on them. He wants something he’s sure of. If we’d arranged for our little secret to come into his hands before this, we could rely on him aiming for that.”

“Do we still have time?”

Dannyl considered the scholar. “I suppose if we act quickly…”

The bright excitement in the scholar’s eyes was gone. Dannyl wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more: give Tayend a reassuring hug or shake some sense into him. By seeking to learn magic on their own, the Elyne courtiers had broken one of the Allied Land’s most important laws. Punishment for breaking it, depending on the circumstances, was imprisonment for life or even execution. The rebels would take any threat of discovery very seriously.

By the miserable look on Tayend’s face, Dannyl knew that if the danger hadn’t sunk in before, it had now. Sighing, he crossed the room and rested his hands on Tayend’s shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Tayend. You set things in motion a little early, that’s all. Let’s find Irand and tell him we need to act straightaway.”

Tayend nodded, then rose and followed him to the door.

It was late when Sonea heard the tapping at her bedroom door. She sighed with relief. Her servant, Viola, was late and Sonea was craving her nightly cup of raka.

“Come in.” Without looking up, she sent a thought at the door and willed it open. When the servant didn’t move into the room, Sonea looked up and felt her blood freeze.

Akkarin stood in the doorway, all but his pale face hidden in the shadowy passage. He moved and she saw that he was carrying two large, heavy books. The cover of one was stained and tattered.

With her heart beating quickly, she stood and reluctantly approached the door, stopping a few strides away to bow.

“Have you finished the diary?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, High Lord.”

“And what did you make of it?”

What should she say? “It… it answers a lot of questions,” she said evasively.

“Such as?”

“How Lord Coren discovered how to manipulate stone.”

“Anything else?”

That he learned black magic.
She didn’t want to say it, but Akkarin obviously wanted some sort of acknowledgment of the fact. What would he do if she refused to talk about it? He would probably keep pressing her. She was too tired to think her way around a conversation like that.

“He used black magic. He saw it was wrong,” she said shortly. “He stopped.”

The corner of his mouth curled up into a half-smile. “Indeed. I do not think the Guild would like to discover that. The real Coren is not a figure they would want young novices to idolize, even if he redeemed himself in the end.” He held out the books. “This is a far older record. I have brought an original as well as a copy. The original is deteriorating, so handle it only as much as you need to confirm the copy is true.”

“Why are you showing me these books?”

The question came out before she could stop it. She winced at the insolence and suspicion in her voice. Akkarin’s eyes bored into her own and she looked away.

“You want to know the truth,” he said. It was not a question.

He was right. She did want to know. A part of her wanted to ignore the books—to refuse to read them just because he wanted her to. Instead, she stepped forward and took them from him. She did not meet his eyes, though she knew he was watching her closely.

“As with the diary, you should not allow anyone to learn of these records,” he said quietly. “Do not even allow your servant to see them.”

She backed away and looked down at the cover of the older book.
Record of the 235th Year,
the cover stated. The book was over five hundred years old! Impressed, she glanced up at Akkarin. He nodded once, knowingly, then turned away. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, then she heard the faint sound of his bedroom door closing.

The books were heavy. She pushed the door closed with a small pulse of magic, and moved to her desk. Pushing aside her notes, she laid the two books side by side.

Opening the original, she gently turned the first pages.

The writing was faint and unreadable in places. Opening the copy, she felt a strange frisson as lines of elegant handwriting appeared. Akkarin’s handwriting.

After reading a few lines of the original, she checked them against the copy and confirmed that the two were identical. Akkarin had left notes where the text had faded, outlining what he thought the missing words might be. She turned more pages, checked again, then chose another page from the center of the book and one from near the end. All seemed to match the copy perfectly. Later, she decided, she would check every page and every word.

Putting the original aside, she turned back to the first page of the copy and began to read.

It was a day-by-day record of a Guild much younger and smaller than the current one. After several pages, she had grown fond of the record-keeper, who clearly admired the people he was writing about. The Guild he knew was very different from the one she understood. Magicians took on apprentices in exchange for money or assistance. Then a comment by the author made it clear what that assistance entailed, and she stopped, aghast.