The door to the Council chamber opened, and the rest of the Council began to arrive, austere and magisterial in their grey Council robes: Breulin, Meron, Volpiril, Perizel, Lorins, Arance, Ganaret, Nagid, Vilmos, Dagan, Isas, Harith.
A herald announced each one as he entered the room, and an Undermage servant waited beside each one's chair to serve him.
Volpiril, Light blast him back into the Darkness, looked positively gloating at the current turn of events, though he did his best to look austere and dispassionate. Isas and Harith were, as always, Lycaelon's creatures, and would back him no matter what he did, but Breulin and Perizel both had a dangerous streak of independence, and the news from the west had been shockingly bad.
Within the Council there were always undercurrents of alliance and jockeyings for position. And it was, disturbing though the thought might be, entirely possible for the head of the Council and the chief Arch-Mage of Armethalieh to be deposed, set aside, forced to yield his place to another. It had not been done in decades. It had never been done to a Tavadon.
Two for him, three against him, and every member of the Council, Isas and Harith included, was both ruthless and ambitious, and each had sources of information nearly as extensive as Lycaelon's own. Each of them had reviewed—as was their right—the experiences of the golems of the Scouring Hunt… the ones that had returned, at any rate. Too many of the creatures the Council thought invincible had not returned at all, and that after The Outlaw had somehow managed to utterly destroy all the packs sent against him.
And since this new campaign was all by Lycaelon Tavadon's orders, the Arch-Mage himself was to blame.
'Gentlemen, shall we convene?' Lycaelon said smoothly, masking his unease as he settled into his seat.
This was a special session of the Council, but the business of the City still had to be dealt with first, for the good of the City. Several smaller matters were raised and handled quickly and efficiently, but Lycaelon could feel the current of tension and expectation running beneath it all, like a riptide beneath the still surface of the sea. Everyone in the room knew what the true purpose of this meeting was.
'And now, the last item on our agenda for this afternoon. The Western Campaign,' Lycaelon began.
Normally they would have heard the reports of the Mages who rode with the Militia in person, but those men were still in the field, and besides, this was too delicate a situation to discuss in the presence of anyone outside the High Council. The field Mages had reported by scrying-glass to Lord Arance, who had worked the spell that had trapped the sendings in the clear golden sphere of Farspeaking until they should be released with a counterspell.
'Before we hear the reports of our Undermages in the west, perhaps it would be helpful to us all to review what we already know about the situation,' Lycaelon said. 'The people of the west have a long history of contempt for the civilizing benefits of citizenship in our City.'
'We know that those damned upstart western rabble are nothing but a pack of savages,' Lord Ganaret said fiercely, leaning forward. 'If you ask me, the Hunt should have scoured them all off the land!'
'Now, Ganaret,' Volpiril said smoothly. 'What would there be to tax in that case? Not that there seems to be anything to tax in any case, if what we have heard so far is true. It seems that Arch-Mage Lycaelon's well-known humanitarianism has led him into trying to bring the benefits of civilization to people who simply aren't ready to receive it.' High Mage Volpiril sat back in his chair, well pleased with his opening remarks. 'Only the savage would destroy his own food, shelter, and belongings and flee into the wilderness rather than accept the rule of the civilized.'
'Crops burned in their fields… whole villages gone overnight… it's Demon-magic, that's what it is,' muttered the aged Lord Vilmos. Vilmos, it was well known, saw Demons beneath every bed and in every chamber pot.
'Now, Lord Vilmos, I think you go too far,' Lord Isas said hastily, with a quick glance at Lycaelon.
'Obviously The Outlaw found a way to spy upon our councils, as I warned you he would,' Lycaelon interrupted, turning the discussion back in a more appropriate direction. 'My lords, this squabbling ill becomes us. Surely these are only minor setbacks. The villages will accept our benevolent rule with time. Arance, let us hear the reports from the field.'
Lycaelon would have suppressed them if he could, already having a fairly good idea of what the full versions of those reports contained, but his power in the City was not that great. The Arch-Mage led the Council, but he did not rule it. If Lycaelon only had his way, he would dispense entirely with the entire pack of shortsighted nattering fools, fit only to raise power for his use, and shepherd Armethalieh to her destiny as the Golden City should be guided, with wisdom and vision!
His wisdom. His vision. He alone had the foresight to envision what must be done. And he alone had the strength of character to sacrifice anything and anyone, even his sole son and heir, to preserve the safety of the City.
But it was not possible. And he was certain the others' sources of information were nearly as good as his own. There was no purpose in wasting his energy on a fight he would surely lose. Better to let the reports enter the record, and plan how to turn the information to his advantage later.
