Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (27 page)

‘Forgive me, but it seems to be the only way to get through to you, Arkmage Tyrfing. You look as if we’re sending you to sleep.’

‘If only,’ muttered Tyrfing. Durnus continued on his behalf.

‘I will explain to you and the council once again, Barkhart, that although we are enjoying a period of peace, I refuse to keep our guard down. We are using this time to swell the ranks of the army, and we are using what the gods have given us to increase our number of mages. This burst of magick isn’t something to be reviled and feared, Malvus, it is something we can use to our advantage if a foe were to rear its head.’

A young councilwoman stood up and raised her hand. Tyrfing gestured for her to speak. ‘What foes, Arkmages?’ she said. ‘Who exactly have we to fear? The factions of the Crumbled Empire squabble amongst themselves. The Sirens are our allies now. The Albion Dukes are growing stronger, but they fight between themselves for land and coin, so who? Who do we have to fear?’

‘I agree!’ came a shout.

‘Who?’

‘What of these Written murders? Should we be worried?’

‘Is that what you’re afraid of?’

Durnus shook his head. ‘The murders are nothing except unfortunate events. Undermage Modren is looking into them. But the possibility of a foe, so far unimagined, unrealised, still remains. Emaneska is changing, and we will see ourselves protected. End of discussion!’

‘Soldiers and mages cost more coin than farmhands and milkmaids!’

‘Magick is for the elite, not for the peasants!’ came another shout, a stance that more and more of the council seemed to share these days. The city’s new sentiments were not just confined to the streets; they were creeping into the magick council and infecting the ears here too. Durnus could hear it in their hushed whispers, their corridor murmuring. Some, he suspected, were already part of the new cults, secretly of course, but they grew bolder every day and with every meeting. He heard their names hissed behind hands: the Ranks, the Repugnant Souls, the Glorified Remnant, the Voices of Jötun, the Enlightened Brotherhood, the Knights of Fortuitous Balance, and something called the Marble Copse, a rather secretive faction indeed, deeply embedded in the council itself. Durnus sighed.

‘Nobody knows that more than I do,’ came a shout. It was Modren, standing at the doors of the great hall, beside the newly restored statue of Evernia. His arms were crossed and his face as stern as a storm front. He, like Tyrfing, was barely in the mood for another cacophonous magick council. He walked forward, sunlight and stained-glass painting rainbows on his armour. The ranks of councillors parted for him, silent. They knew better than to provoke him. Modren had never quite adjusted to the politics like Tyrfing and Durnus had. He was still a soldier at heart, and like one, he strained to confine his arguments to his mouth, rather than let them escape to his fists, or his flames, much to the concern of several council members.

Modren pushed past Malvus and sat upon his throne with a clang, steel striking marble. He rested his elbows on the arm of his throne. ‘I’m as worried as you are by this sudden surge of applicants, Council Barkhart. It makes my job harder.’

‘Then you’ll agree that this needs to be stopped, Undermage Modren.’

The mage shook his head. ‘No, I do not. I agree with the Arkmages. If an army marched up to our gates tomorrow, I’d rather have a thousand peasants who know how to wield a spell than a thousand peasants who can only wield a pitchfork. Something strange may be happening to this world, but all it takes to resolve it is the right training. That I can do.’

A man shouted from the back of the hall. ‘Better we take them in and teach them, rather than have them causing trouble in the towns, or splintering off altogether.’

Tyrfing clicked his fingers. ‘Exactly,’ he said, thanking the councillor with a nod. At least they still had a few allies.

‘And who pays for all of this?’ Malvus challenged.

‘They cost too much!’

‘We’re already stretched too thin as it is with the rebuilding.’

‘A war-sized army in peace time is a waste of coin!’

Durnus held up his hands for peace. ‘Our coffers can cope.’

Malvus turned around and raised his hands to the council. ‘For how long? I would wager that they’re already running low. Soon you will be announcing new taxes, and where will we be then? Stunting our trade to feed an army we don’t need. Unless, of course, there’s something you’re not telling us?’

‘And thinning your pockets no doubt, Malvus,’ challenged Durnus. ‘That is what you are truly concerned about, is it not?’

Malvus turned to glare, but quickly remembered his place. He bowed instead, keeping his eyes on the floor. ‘I fear you are mistaken, your Mage. My humble coin goes directly to keeping this city on its course; to becoming an empire in its own right. The only true power in Emaneska.’

There were cheers from some in the hall. Others grinned unabashedly. Some even had the audacity to clap, as if it were some piece of theatre. Malvus adjusted his ruffled silk collar. There was the faintest hint of a smile on his face. ‘I only wish you could see that, your Mage,’ he said, and then suddenly held his hand to his mouth, feigning embarrassment. ‘Oh, my apologies, Arkmage,’ he said. Close behind him somebody sniggered.

Durnus stood up and folded his hands calmly behind his back. Somehow, he stared directly at the councillor, something which Malvus found incredibly disturbing. ‘None required, Council Barkhart. Seeing as you are so charitable with your hard-earned coin, perhaps I can rely on you to help fund a new barracks for our prospective mages? As you are so very concerned with the advancement of our fine country?’

Malvus narrowed his eyes. He was now stuck in a political corner, and a public one at that. He could do nothing but bow once again. ‘I will gladly discuss those arrangements with you in private, Arkmage Durnus,’ he muttered.

‘I am sure you will.’

Tyrfing also stood up. He quickly descended from his throne. ‘Until tomorrow then, councillors,’ he shouted. The magick council, some two-hundred strong, began to filter out through the gilded doors at the entrance of the hall. Like a lumbering, many-legged beast, it talked to itself and chattered animatedly. Malvus and his little band of loyal followers held the rear. They were deep in hushed conversation. They huddled close as they walked away, like the poisonous spur on the tail of the council beast.

Tyrfing, Modren, and Durnus remained behind. A few councillors came to bow and shake hands, some formal and polite, others overly eager to express their shared views. The Arkmages patiently heard each of them out and then thanked them graciously. They needed all the supporters they could get. It took half an hour for the great hall to empty.

As soon as they were alone, Modren slumped back into the Underthrone. ‘Today was particularly trying.’

‘And you only had to suffer through a tiny slice of it,’ sniffed Tyrfing. He seemed so distracted at the moment. Modren knew better than to ask why. Durnus didn’t have to. Tyrfing coughed then, another one of his choking, rasping coughs that seemed to take him by surprise. He covered his mouth with the hem of his mage’s robe and then ran a hand across his mouth.

‘Where were you anyway?’ he asked, hoarsely.

Modren rolled his eyes. ‘We had trouble before dawn, down in the docks.’

‘What happened?’

‘A group of those Thron nutcases…’

‘The Thunderites,’ offered Durnus.

‘Those are the ones. Campaigning about their beloved god on the western boardwalk. Not very clever to start denouncing all other gods, especially the god of the sea, in that area. A group of Njord-following ship-boys took offence to their preaching. Took a couple of broken bottles to their necks.’

‘Gods’ sakes.’

‘Indeed.’

There was a pause as each man took a moment to collect their battered thoughts after the assault that had been the magick council meeting. Tyrfing ran a charcoal-smudged hand through his hair. Like a drawn-out siege, his mop of black hair was slowly giving way to a silvery grey hue that betrayed his age. His blue eyes, now glued to the floor, were surrounded by deep, dark rings of tiredness, signature of a week of late nights. Still, all things considered, Tyrfing had just crept into his seventies, and although the lines were now showing in his dark, sun-leathered skin, he looked good for his age. And as far as any Written was concerned, he was a marvel. Most mages never lived past their fifties, thanks to a combination of the madness and certain occupational hazards. Fifty-five had been the previous record.

Modren broke the silence with another issue. ‘The Written are starting to ask questions.’

‘Which ones?’ asked Durnus. His face, as always, had the appearance of a crinkled old map, bleached by the winter sun. His immortality had locked his age in time. Cruel irony perhaps, that he hadn’t been restored to a younger man, but those who are immortal hardly have cause for complaint.

Modren held his hands up. ‘All of them.’

‘Then bring them in. I think it is time they knew.’

Tyrfing looked up from this staring spot on the marble floor. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Very.’

Modren got to his feet and headed for the door. ‘Right you are then!’

As the mage departed, Durnus put his hand on Tyrfing’s shoulder and let it linger. ‘Let us venture up to the Nest. That will cheer you up.’

Tyrfing knuckled his eyes again. ‘I don’t need cheering up. I just want the magick council to leave us alone, Farden back, and his bitch of a daughter to just kill herself and save us all the trouble.’

‘Anything else?’

Tyrfing was about to answer when he abruptly began to cough. He clamped his hand over his mouth as he hawked and barked, deep in his throat. Tears squeezed from his pinched eyes. When he’d recovered, he took a breath and wiped his hand on the hem of his robe. Crimson smeared across the white cloth. Tyrfing quickly clenched a fist. Sometimes, he was glad Durnus was blind. ‘I think that’s it,’ he replied, folding the hem over to hide the blood.

His friend chuckled. ‘You don’t want much at all then.’

Tyrfing walked Durnus behind the thrones. There was a gap of about twenty feet between them and the back wall, and there, as part of the rebuild, the workers had placed an thick oak door with a silver handle. The design of a splayed hand had been carved into the wood and inlaid with silver. It was quite the piece of craftsmanship.

Tyrfing pointed his friend to the door, and Durnus let his hands wander across it. His wrinkled fingers traced the cold shape of the carving. He sank his hand into it, finger for finger, palm to palm. There was a click and an echoing thud, and Durnus pushed the door open. Tyrfing led him inside.

A set of curving stairs led them into a circular room. There were skinny windows set in the walls, stained-glass panes depicting the Battle of Krauslung. The glass was so new that the dyes looked wet, fresh, like the memories they had been drawn from. Dragons swooped over grey walls. A dozen ships sat in a crescent in the harbour waters. Fire bloomed in one pane, brave soldiers in another. An evil, dead face grimaced in the last.

The Arkmages paced through the room and headed for another door, one that was more like a giant misshapen porthole than a door. It too was made of painted glass. The craftsmen had decorated these panes with feathers. Slate-grey fading to a translucent white, the detail was so incredible it seemed that if the latch were to be loosed, the doors might fly away into the morning sunlight and escape. Tyrfing ran his hand across them. These were new; the final touches to what the workers had come to call the Nest. Tyrfing described them for his friend, and Durnus smiled. He had the smell of the dyes and paints to enjoy, the taste of marble dust on his tongue.

With the gentlest of pushes, the ornate doors swung open and revealed a long balcony with a spiral staircase on either side of it. Above them, the tendrils of marble trees pawed at the sky. Tyrfing and Durnus stepped out onto the balcony and ascended the left-hand set of stairs. The breeze was cold at the pinnacle of the Arkathedral, but gentle. They could hear voices, the hissing of brooms, and the soft tapping of wooden mallets above them.

The Nest was finished.

It had taken one long year to complete, but it was the crown to the Arkathedral’s brow. Sitting directly on top of the great hall’s marble roof, the Nest was a two-tiered tower built for one purpose and one purpose only: Ilios.

Though the gryphon was nowhere to be seen, Tyrfing could feel his eyes on the back of his neck as they set foot on the top level of the tower. A group of dusty craftsmen bustled nearby, packing their tools into boxes and sweeping marble chips and dust into buckets.

Tyrfing looked around, drinking in the vista. Behind them, the vertical granite walls of Hardja reached up into the sky and pierced the clear blue of the morning with her jagged peak. Directly ahead of them, far on the other side of Krauslung’s narrow valley was Hardja’s twin sister, Ursufel. She was a black arrowhead in the bright white light of the early sun. In the south, to their right, was the endless sea and a port bristling with masts and sails. Hazy smudges, flocks of gulls and rimelings, parried with each other as they fought for scraps on the boardwalks. In the far distance was a line of black specks, the faraway islands of Skap. Between them and the coast, flecks of white and brown scuttled slowly across the water.

To the north and left sat Manesmark and the jagged range that was the Össfen Mountains. In the distance, dominating all, was Emaneska’s loftiest peak, Lokki. Tyrfing momentarily pondered whether there was a reason the mountain’s name sounded so similar to the god’s. He made a mental note to ask Heimdall.

If the Arkmage squinted, he could just about make out the cranes and the scaffolding around the new Spire on Manesmark hill. It would never be as grand or as tall as the old Spire, but it would do its job of housing all of the new mages. They needed a home. They had to have a home. If the wind blew right, Tyrfing could imagine hearing the thud of the giant granite blocks as they were lowered into place, or the hissing of the fire and water spells as the blocks were melted to join one another, perfectly sealed.