He vividly recalled his disappointment at finding them to be deadly dull. It had seemed to him that a book with such an exciting title should have been full of horrors—bloodcurdling examples of Forbidden Acts, in excruciating detail, so that Mages down the centuries would know exactly how to recognize a Forbidden Act when they saw it. In fact, Ars Perfidorum was a mealymouthed prude of a book, more intent on outlining the punishments to be meted out for each perfidious deed than describing the deeds themselves. It was—it was a clerkly sort of book, and sent him off into a near-doze when he tried to read it.
Maybe I thought that book was dull then, he thought, swiftly leafing through the text, but that was before anybody shoved the History of the City in Seven Volumes under my nose — hah!
There they were—just as he remembered. His three books—titles and all.
He leafed back a page.
'The Foule and Invidious Practices of Wilde Magick.' Now what in the name of the Light is that supposed to mean? Kellen wondered, frowning.
The chapter in question didn't exactly answer any of his questions, although Ye Boke of Sunne, Ye Boke of Moone, and Ye Boke of Starres were named as the 'prime texts of the heinous practitioners of those who seek anarchy and chaos.' In fact, except for that single item of hard fact, the chapter was singularly unhelpful. It railed at great length against the 'Wilde Mages,' suggested any number of unpleasant means to deal with them, and attributed all manner of evils to them (always prefacing the accusation with the words 'it is said') but it didn't say anything about what this 'Wilde Magick' was, or why it should be so bad.
In fact, the worst accusations that the author seemed to be able to come up with were that it was unpredictable, that it could not be controlled, and that some of the so-called lesser races such as Centaurs and fauns were known to practice it. 'And well we knowe that these creatures are closer to the Beaste in nature than to Noble Manne—'
Huh. 'And in particular, Wilde Magick is the greatest seducer of Womyn, who are weak in Mind and Spirit and inclined to Corruption.' Now what did that mean? That women could and did use it—or that it could be used to seduce women?
Hmm… Now there was a possibility that had all manner of pleasant ramifications…
Well, at least he knew now what the books were, and why they were passing themselves off as children's tales. He put the Ars Perfidorum back in its proper place, taking care that it fit exactly into the place where he'd pulled it down from, then moved the ladder back to where he'd found it. It looked as if the only place he was going to find any answers about the books was within their covers.
He grinned to himself. And what good luck that he had the entire rest of the day free! I got just what I wished for, Kellen thought with glee, something new — something new —at last!
NIGHT had fallen over the City while Kellen puzzled his way through the Books' peculiar crabbed handwriting in the safety of his room, although it was never really dark here. Lamps, magickal and otherwise, kept the darkness at bay all night long, in every season. Lamps illuminated the streets and decorated the gardens; lamps even lit alleyways to discourage the presence of thieves. Not that anyone would be foolish enough to attempt to rob the household of a Mage of any sort. Not twice, anyway. He'd skimmed through all three of the Books once quickly, finding little that made sense to him. The Book of Sun was composed partly of philosophy, partly of spells, but the spells were not of a kind that he recognized, and Kellen was doubtful that they could actually work. They seemed to verge on wondertale superstition. Burn this leaf. Say those rhymes. He could imagine nothing further from the abstruse disciplines of the High Magick.
But at least The Book of Sun did contain things Kellen recognized as magick. The Book of Moon didn't even seem to contain any actual spells, just hints at spells—as far as he could tell from a quick skim, it was something halfway between an etiquette book and a philosophy text—and The Book of Stars made no sense to him at all. He had the odd feeling, though, that there was something there, if he could only figure it out.
The house was utterly silent, with all of the household in bed, from which comfort no one would stir until they had to. That Lycaelon was a stern master was no secret; he did not approve of his servants 'prowling,' as he put it, during the bells of proper sleep. This included Kellen, of course, and after having been caught by Lycaelon once or twice, he kept to his own part of the mansion when restlessness kept him awake.
Tonight was one of those nights.
He had his shutters open on the small balcony that overlooked the gardens, and across the gardens he could see the lights of the other homes of the Mage elite. Soft globes of pastel colors lit their gardens—you could tell where one garden took over from the next by the color of the lamps. Only a few lights were burning in the homes themselves, and those were probably night-lights, not an indication that anyone was wakeful or working. In the distance he could see the Council House, facing the Delfier Gate that opened onto the forest road.
The Council House stood symbolic guard over the gate and access into the City. Or was it more than merely symbolic?
There were a few farming villages in that direction—the City claimed extensive lands outside itself. Certainly soldiers were sent out there, and tax collectors, the latter to feed the City's prosperity, and the former— perhaps to ensure the City's prosperity?
But Kellen had never been there, and emigration between village and City was strongly discouraged, or so he'd been told, though never why.
