The smell of magic woke me. Immediately my heart was hammering, my throat tight; the terrible delight of raw arcane power washed over me like frankincense on mountain air. Aromas and colors I hadn’t tasted in a decade blasted me open, telling me things mundane senses never could. Death rode on tones of crystal from a secret velvet darkness between the stars, wrapped in the purple-gold caress of spidersilk and aromas of peach and shocking blue. The magic hadn’t originated with the ard-righ’s wizard Athramail, whose signatures and workings regularly peppered the air of Ilnemedon; it wasn’t the doing of any of the small-time charms dealers who haunt the back rooms of Ilnemedon’s taverns and the ships that ride the winds up and down the Ruillin. This was a power blacker than any of those men could imagine and a thousand times more seductive; I struggled to wrench my awareness closed, to wrap a thick blanket around my senses, above all not to let my mind stray to the place where that intoxicating song originated. Just before I retreated into my mental cocoon, I felt the arcane circuit complete, felt the ard-righ die.
Intoxication fled; revulsion and guilt raced through me in its wake. My own harsh breathing echoed against the dark ceiling and unlit walls. The memory of a sunlit glade threatened to breach the surface of my mind; my palms itched. I threw myself out of bed and dressed, then sat before the dying fire and waited for the cannonade that would mark the ard-righ’s death.
Poor Athramail. Not even the Prince of the Aballo Order of wizards could have warded off that attack. But that wouldn’t stop the old man from flaying himself half to death with guilt, nor would it necessarily spare his life.
And poor Coran: for the next three minutes, or maybe five, a son—and then, forever, an orphan and righ. It is the gravest of cruelties that for a man to ascend the throne, his father must die.
Frigid wind beat against my back as I rode up the mountain to Mourne Palace: making outrageous lies of the Ardan-eve garlands that lay trampled all over the road, sending the tail of my hair forward to flutter like crows’ wings in my peripheral vision. Spring never comes kindly to Ilnemedon; the cold wet wind off the Ruillin persists well into summer, seemingly until the moment when the city turns into a sauna. In ten years I’d grown accustomed to this, but this afternoon the lowering clouds and biting air felt like a portent.
I wondered, again, why the wizard whose working I’d tasted last night had chosen this holiday for his assault: the first light of spring is a time that favors growth and the seeding of great beginnings, a time so steeped in women’s energy that only emergent need would persuade most wizards to draw direct power. How could the death of the ard-righ and the chaos that would ensue serve the beginning of anything? Even if one of the other righthe might delude himself that he could win the ard-righ’s throne, no Aballo wizard would wield that black power.
Even if they would, none of them could master it.
A flock of ragged crows haunted the palace as I rode up the final, steep ascent to the gate: perching on the lichen-spotted bastions, wheeling between the parapets and the steel-grey sky. Men on the bastions threw stones at the crows, trying to drive off the ill portent. It was too late for that, of course; and the crows were far from the only thing out of sorts here this afternoon. I didn’t recognize either of the men standing guard at the gate—which I should have expected, as palace security is the responsibility of the tanist, and yesterday’s tanist had become today’s righ. But this afternoon the usual swordsmen at the gate were augmented by flashmen on the wall.
Strange days indeed when a royal will stoop to using flash-weapons, even if it’s not his own hand wielding them. Worry for Athramail raced through me again; but a second look at the wall showed me the emerald sparkle of Athramail’s power between the stones, occluded by shadow and invisible to the uninitiated eye. Usually I did my best to ignore the wardings, but this afternoon they were a minor comfort: Athramail yet lived, yet held the post of House Healer to Ilesia, despite his failure last night.
The new guards challenged me, skittish as a couple of two-year-old racers on their first track.
“Good afternoon,” I said, showing them two empty hands but not dismounting. I refused to acknowledge the flashmen on the wall. “I’m Ellion Tellan.”
The guards at the gate exchanged nervous glances. Ilnemedon is not a city in which it is wise to offend a stranger, particularly not an armed stranger who is a head taller and several handsbreadths broader in the shoulder than most men of the warrior class. But, today, their first day on duty outside an unfamiliar gate, the guards were more afraid of letting the wrong man pass.
Political assassinations are not supposed to happen anymore; righ and druid alike insist that assassins are a part of the past that has gone the way of the old gods. But the truth is most righthe and more than a few tiarna continue to use assassins, and a security master can sometimes be bribed not to discover a breach in his defenses until too late. A mistake at the gate can cost a guard his life.
Both guards surveyed me warily. It wasn’t hard to guess at the tallies being conducted behind those nervous eyes: a warrior knows another at a glance, and in this case the problem was complicated by sufficient evidence of wealth that there might be unpleasant consequences for them if they refused me entry in error. The one on the right had the look of a horse about to spook: I kept my hands still, my eyes steady, my attention on the men at the gate rather than the ones on the wall. If one of these two startled, it would be the flash discharge that reached me first, and in this wind the telltale smell of ozone might not hit me before the bolt did. The only sure way to defend against a flasher is an arcane shield. And I didn’t want to find out whether I’d violate my vow and draw the power necessary to raise one, not with the memory of the working that had killed the ard-righ so damnably fresh.
“Er, uh—well, that is—your name’s not on the list...” ventured the guard on the left.
“Fools!”
I relaxed a little, picking up the reins again. Den Donard, who had gone to bed last night as leader of a royal son’s personal contingent and been awakened as First Armsmaster to Ilesia, paused inside the gate, scowling at the guards.
“Damn your empty heads! I don’t know how you did things out at Carrickfergus, but if you’re to stand guard duty in Ilnemedon you’ve got to learn to recognize people! That’s the Ard-harpist!”
One guard blanched; the other reddened and unlocked the gate.
“Your pardon, Lord Ellion,” Den said. “The—the righ will be pleased to see you.”
I smiled and rode through. “No blood lost. Even Lugh Lamfhada had difficulties getting inside the gate on at least one occasion.”
Den smiled in return, offering a salute.
“Congratulations, by the way,” I said.
Den grinned. “Thanks.”
“This doesn’t mean I’ve seen the last of you on the sparring grounds, does it?”
“Tell me when you’ll be there, and I’ll strap on my ugliest armor, just for you.”
