The Lords of Anavar (7 page)

Faeya Ryr moved closer to him and leaned against him.

"What do you fear?" she asked.

"Shadows, just shadows. If I could articulate my fears, I would tell you."

They sat in silence until the bells summoned them for the council meeting.

Gerrand had dozed and woke startled, and pleased to find Faeya Ryr leaning against his shoulder. A servant gently shook him awake.

They entered the meeting room last of all the members. Two seats remained vacant in the front. Tyman tapped his fingers while they seated themselves. Gerrand did not hurry.

"I am glad everyone arrived promptly," said Stile. Gerrand took no notice of Stile's remark. Instead, his attention focused on Cehana.

Tyman spoke truly; Cehana looked like death itself. Her long blonde hair, streaked with gray, appeared thin and burnt as if she had walked through fire. Her eyes, wide and nervous, darted their glances around the room, noting everyone who entered. Her skin pale and dirty accented her ghoulish appearance. Gerrand could hear her quick breaths and the tapping of her fingers on the chair arm. She wrapped herself in a velvet robe that looked out of place on her. He shivered involuntarily.

Everyone sat quietly as Stile raised his hand. He gazed over the room, certain that he had everyone's attention. Gerrand felt impatient. He wanted to hear Cehana's words.

"Cehana brought news to the Council that must be shared. I will not bore you with an introduction. This news is vital and must not be delayed. Cehana."

She rose slowly as one just regaining her strength. Gerrand tried a brief health sense on her and pulled back when her head turned toward him. Her eyes remained on him as she began to speak. What Gerrand saw appalled him; how could she be standing? Her energy depleted; she appeared to be moving by reflex only.

"Friends, I have traveled far to reach you." Her voice was a hoarse whisper, but grew in strength as she spoke. "I left my home a week ago but the cost was great. Forgive me if I must pause to rest during my oration. The great volcano of Oraeland erupted and destroyed two cities killing over three thousand people. If I did not possess such power, I too, would have died. As it is, I barely survived." She paused to rest. She bowed her head, breathing slowly. Stile moved toward her but she waved him off.

"I must tell you, this was no natural disaster. It struck with cunning and malevolence."

"What do you mean?" asked Hile Berbac.

"Cunning? It was a volcano."

"Please, let her speak," said Stile.

"I heard voices in the thunder, shrieking and howling with the wind. Voices! Those that know me best know I do not give in to fancies. There were fell voices. The force of the volcano struck each settlement with a determination that belied logic. Every home, every building, every farm was destroyed by the blast or lava. Nothing was left. Nothing! Vast fields around the cities were spared but the populated areas were annihilated. I cried out to the sky, sending my power upward. In my grief I believed I could undo the devastation, but I knew not what to do. Then I thought I heard laughter drifting down with the ash. It struck my soul with a force unthinkable. Fell voices chilled our very marrow. I looked up at the blackness in the sky and I saw a face. I did not recognize the face, but I can recreate it here for you." She took a deep breath and cast a small glamour of colors that enlarged and changed into a man's face. Iron-grey hair and pointed beard surrounding blue eyes and a sneering mouth. The eyes glowed with hatred and the Mages gasped even from the copy.

"It was worse in person, believe me. It covered the sky. Well, Gerrand, this is the face. Tyman suspects you may have seen it before."

Gerrand nodded and looked around the room. "It is Macelan."

Gasps filled the room and murmurs hissed among those gathered.

"It can't be."

"There is no record of his likeness," said Stile. "It couldn't have been faked. Only Gerrand knows what Macelan looked like."

"No, it could not have been reproduced. You are right," said Gerrand. "There is no likeness of him recorded anywhere. Cehana saw the face of Macelan in the ash clouds."

"Legend says a sign shall appear in the sky to herald Macelan's return," said Stile in a broad voice.

"Aren't we jumping to this conclusion?" asked Doad Bess. "We have had many disasters in the last five hundred years. Why is this one different?"

"Because of the face in the clouds," said Stile. "Plus the other things Cehana witnessed. I am convinced."

"The face could be a younger Gerrand," said Yanor.

"Not really," said Faeya Ryr. "Perhaps from an angle."

"Gerrand said it was Macelan," said Tyman Stile, raising his voice.

"There appears to be enough evidence to warrant caution," said Gerrand. "I would not wish the Council to err here. Even without Cehana's witness I know Macelan has returned. I sense Macelan's presence as I used to when he was alive. There cannot be two people with such similar magic signatures."

"You sense him?" asked Doad Bess. "Can you sense all of us as well?"

"Yes." They looked at each other, surprised at Gerrand's power. "Yes, I can sense when you are near, but it varies according to strength. If you were across the world I might not be able to detect your presence, but Macelan's strength is awesome."

"Then you also know if Petyr Wolk still lives."

"He does," said Gerrand. "However, I have no way of knowing where he is. He has veiled himself somehow."

"Let's return to the important subject," said Alec Endria.

"Good point," said Stile. "Gerrand, what does your great wisdom tell you?"

"It is time for lunch." Gerrand rose and left the room with Faeya Ryr in tow. "I shall answer your question after lunch. I need to think a bit. There is something nagging my memory but I can't dislodge it."

"Will wine and cheese help?" asked Zae Pol.

Gerrand smiled and waved.

Later, they gathered again. Gerrand appeared sleepy.

"Get enough to eat?" asked Stile.

"Yes, thank you. Your concern is touching. Now, may we hear your plans for the Council? You said you would speak before me."

"I did. So I shall. Friends, we have a crisis before us. I wish to put forth a plan of action for the Council. One group shall prepare a defense of this castle against all threats that may occur. We shall raise a spell to seal the castle from the world. First, we shall make it impregnable. Then, we shall raise an illusion so no eyes may see what we do. While protected, we shall review the Histories the Gerrand wrote and the other manuscripts safeguarded here, that may help us determine the route to victory. I believe Macelan will try and destroy the histories here. They may have some clues to his weakness in them.

"Another group shall prepare to seek out Macelan and his devices and counter his moves. They shall walk among the enemy and actively encounter Macelan's allies and sow discord where they see fit. Any movement by the enemy that can be thwarted will be, and quickly.

"The last group shall be embassies to the courts of the world. We must have their cooperation and they must learn of the grave peril that we all face. They shall go to Queen Beatrice first, then to Curesia and Calendia after that. It would be best if Queen Beatrice could be thoroughly convinced of the peril and send officials from her court to the other courts. Failing that, our embassies must move with utmost speed.

"I suggest Lar Vokas and Zae Pol as our embassies because of their noble families. Their voices will carry additional weight. I will remain here with Alec Endria, Cehana, Techna Vole and Yanor to protect the castle and do the research. Gerrand will lead Faeya Ryr, Hile Berbac and Doad Bess against Macelan. After Gerrand speaks, then discussion will be opened to the validity of my choices."

Gerrand stood and walked to Stile. He contemplated Stile's face for a few moments. "Your choices seem wise. I remember much of what I recorded in the Histories but fresh eyes reviewing them seem prudent. However, I will speak of Macelan. Many of you have read my histories but words on a page cannot move us like the image Cehana projected for us. Yes, that was Macelan. His appearance changed much in the last few years of his life giving him the wild, zealot eyes that bore through you. Once he appeared well groomed; often mistaken for a noble. He was more fastidious about his dress than Yanor." Laughter danced around the room. Yanor's neck reddened.

"However, make no mistake. Macelan possessed such power as we can only dream about. It is likely that I underestimate him; I usually did."

"What powers did he possess?" asked Yanor.

"It would be easier to list those he did not. He could travel across large areas with a thought. He could be immaterial and pass through walls. He could read the thoughts of the unwary. His hearing was uncanny even unaided. No whisper escaped his notice and the information he obtained was as dangerous as his magic. And his voice. Beware his voice. His words could bend your will; wrap you in a fog from which you would never emerge. It was only chance that kept him from controlling the world."

"Is it a chance we can use again?" asked Stile. His voice cracked slightly. Gerrand looked at the ceiling while he considered the question; then shook his head.

"No. We cannot trust to luck, especially with Wolk betraying us."

"What proof do we have?" asked Yanor. "Petyr is my friend and I won't have you speak in such a manner."

"If he is such a good friend," said Gerrand. "Perhaps we should question your allegiance to the Council. Surely he would confide in you."

"Gerrand, this is not the time," said Stile.

"Yanor is interfering with our goal," said Gerrand. "He must put the Council before everything. Everything. Else why was he permitted to join the Council?"

"I agree," said Hile Berbac. The others nodded their heads. Yanor returned to his chair muttering to himself.

"All right," said Yanor. "We will proceed with your suspicions. But if you are wrong, Gerrand. I shall find a way to repay in kind."

"Naturally. That's all the farther you can think."

"Gerrand!" Stile stood in the center of the room. "We must stop bickering. Macelan is laughing at us. With this behavior he will feel no threat from us, and rightfully so."

"We are no threat to him," said Gerrand. "We do not have the power to contend with him."

"Is it hopeless?" asked Zae Pol. "That doesn't sound like you."

"It is not hopeless, but we cannot use our strength until he is weakened, otherwise he will win. He has the skill to subvert us individually and he once spoke of a spell to gather in the strength of his enemies and use it against them."

"So you think he might be waiting for us to strike and then steal away our magic?" asked Zae Pol.

"How do we weaken him?" asked Lar Vokas. "If he is so powerful, won't he know what we are trying to do?"

"He will if he pays attention to us. If the Council appears disbanded and unorganized, he will ignore us. He would not believe a single Mage capable of defeating his desires. We must project such an image while secretly working together to defeat him. We must appear fractious, and incapable of working together to allay his suspicions. Of course that is the easy part; we have achieved that already. But I must warn you, he can sense a spell and who wrought it. Each spell must be made separately; no collaborations. We must use our strength separately until the last."

"How will you find him?" asked Stile.

"I have someone working on it right now." It proved hard to suppress his grin.

"Artus?" asked Stile. Alec Endria beamed. "Not Artus? You wouldn't dare. He is not part of the Council."

"That is correct. He is working for me; only for me. I have other agents whose names I shall not divulge. I fear Macelan will have set so many things in motion that even if we defeat his return we shall face a hundred problems. War may be the first thing. Assassination, surely. Both things he talked about after he became hunted by the nobles."

"Where were you then?" asked Yanor.

"I was with him, at first. It was a wonderful time for learning and expanding the frontier of knowledge. Then his mind drifted into darker things and I fled to the coast alone and became a fisherman again. Now I am not sure if the dark places in his mind were always there. I rejected what he became and hid from his eye. I could not be certain how he would treat me and I feared the worst. I was not with him at the end and he sent images to me of what he would do to me once he returned."

"I wish I could see them," sneered Hile Berbac.

"You shall!" snapped Gerrand.

Suddenly, Berbac stiffened and his eyes widened in horror.

"I added your face instead of mine."

Berbac moaned and his eyes rolled back. Doad Bess caught him as he fell. Berbac's white face dripped with sweat. Even Faeya Ryr took pity on him and wiped his face with a cool damp cloth. She shook her head at Gerrand.

Tyman Stile looked at Gerrand who stared back, defiantly. Stile cleared his throat.

"Well, there is no doubt that your power has not diminished, despite the passage of years. I know Hile asked for it, but we will need everyone able and willing to resist Macelan."

"I apologize to the Council, but not to Berbac. When this is over, he and I shall have an understanding."

"Good, good. Can Macelan change shape?"

"I am certain he possessed some way of disguising himself, but I believe it to be a visual spell covering his features not a true transfiguration of his physical body."

Gerrand paused, looking at each face in turn.

"How many here appear as nature dictates? Who has not altered their appearance through the use of magic?"

"We all have," said Zae Pol. "The very use of magic extends our youthful appearances. Even you do not look more than an elderly man, despite the many lifetimes you have lived."

"That is correct. Although I was not present at his demise the story of the sorceress undoing his plans are correct."

"There has never been a sorceress," said Tyman Stile. "That was just a myth."

"Ah, there your information is incorrect. A young girl named Melith fell in love with Macelan, and to my surprise, he returned her love, for a time. He taught her as his pupil; however, she had power of her own. She was a witch when they met, perhaps one of the last ones and again, in retrospect there seemed to be some history between them, some shared experience. His heart was tightly in her grasp. He taught her much of his lore. However, as often happens with a woman such as Melith who cared only for power, her love waned and she left Macelan. He fell into a rage and demanded she return. She refused and used her power to hide from him. Here she miscalculated. His power was vastly greater still and he tore down mountains to find her. When he caught her he cursed her and imprisoned her in the Stone of Sorrows near Kammar."