To Light A Candle

of this, from the attempt to starve the City by the ruinous and ill-considered reduction of our borders, to this latest attempt to overthrow us utterly. His son was but a pawn.

“There will be punishment, of course. Margon Ogregance’s advancement in rank will not be as swift as it might have otherwise been. We must be certain that this… cankerous growth was entirely of House Volpiril’s instigation. But once these inconvenient memories have been pruned from his mind—I shall do that myself—perhaps the young tree will grow straight once more.”

And Mage Ogregance will be your devoted partisan and supporter for as long as he lives, lest you suddenly discover “evidence” that Margon was, in fact, a willing participant in Cilarnen Volpiril’s plot, Anigrel thought admiringly. Lycaelon Tavadon might be foolish in many ways, but the man was a master manipulator of his fellow Mages, and even Anigrel stood in awe of his grasp of politics.

All for the good of the City, of course. As defined by the Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon.

“An excellent solution, Arch-Mage,” Anigrel said, allowing his voice to fill with the warmth of admiration. “And, if you will permit, I will take care of the preparations for Rolfort and young Cilarnen. After all—” he smiled coldly— “it need not be elegant.”

“Indeed.” An answering wolf-light kindled in Lycaelon’s eyes. “But I know that your work could never be anything less than perfection, Anigrel. You are… you are the son I should have had.”

Anigrel bowed his pale head modestly, casting his eyes downward.

“Lord Arch-Mage, I—”

“And why should you not be?” Lycaelon said, struck by a sudden inspiration. “I have no children—you have no family. You have been my son in all but body. It is not right that the name of Tavadon, which has served this great City so well and so long, should die with me. I shall adopt you—make you my heir—and you will serve the City after me, in the name of Tavadon!”

“My lord, I—” This was going even better than he had dreamed. As the Arch-Mage’s heir, Anigrel would be in an unassailable position of power and influence. No one would dare speak against him. Such adoptions were not common, but they weren’t entirely unheard-of, either. Especially in the light of Lycaelon’s personal history. Both his children Banished, and both half-breeds; he’d never actually had a true Mageborn son. “I shall serve you more faithfully than you can imagine.”

“My son.” Lycaelon seemed to savor the words as if they were some rare delicacy. “My true son. Come Light’s Day I shall have you entered on the rolls of the Temple of the Light as my true son and heir. You shall take Volpiril’s seat in Council, and I shall see you raised from Master Undermage to the ranks of the High Mages themselves!”

“My lord,” Anigrel said, a faint modest note of protest in his voice. His present rank was Master Undermage; his elevation to that rank from Journeyman Undermage had been unwontedly swift, and a signal mark of Lycaelon’s favor. To go from there to High Mage was normally the work of decades of study: many Mageborn never reached the higher ranks of Magery at all.

“What? Do you not think my son is worthy of such an honor?” Lycaelon demanded with heavy-handed humor. “I know you are more than capable in the Art.”

“I think, my lord,” Anigrel said practically, “that it will cause jealously and bad feeling among your fellows.” And that will work to my advantage, in time.

“Bah! The petty quibbles of petty fools! I swore I would bring the Council to heel when Volpiril forced his madness upon me, and so I shall. This is but the beginning. We shall do great things together, Anigrel.”

“Indeed we shall, Lord Arch-Mage. Indeed we shall.”

—«♦»—

HE must have slept—though Cilarnen had no memory of dozing off—but the hard click of stone-on-stone roused Cilarnen to heart-pounding wakefulness.

Footsteps in the corridor outside. Stone golem footsteps.

He was on his feet before he realized he’d moved, his back pressed against the wall of his cell as if he could somehow transport himself through the unyielding stone.

They were coming for him.

His hands clenched and unclenched without his conscious volition. He made a hundred plans and discarded them in an instant—not for escape; he knew that was impossible; but to somehow save the others. Surely the High Council would give him a chance to explain, to tell them that this had all been his idea…

The cell door opened. Cilarnen blinked as light flooded the cell. A globe of Mage-light floated in over the man’s head and rose toward the ceiling, and in the new brightness, Cilarnen could see that his visitor was a blond man who wore the plain grey robes and tabard of a Master Undermage. Behind him stood a pair of Stone