Rolfort, of course, would not be so fortunate. Anigrel would make certain of that.
But when Cilarnen escaped—and a desire to escape was only one of the compulsions Anigrel had laid upon him in his long Working—there was only one place he could go.
To the Wild Lands, where the Outlaw Kellen lived.
Like would surely call to like. Fellow Outlaws, fellow victims of misfortune, surely they would become as brothers?
And then Anigrel would spring his trap.
Taking a deep breath, and marshaling his strength, Anigrel summoned the globe of Mage-light and walked from the cell, preparing to pay a call upon his other victim.
—«♦»—
AT Dawn Bells, Lycaelon was given the exquisite pleasure of entertaining Lords Isas and Breulin in his Council chambers.
Both Mages, of course, already knew most of the details of the plot and the arrests that had occurred at Midnight Bells. If servants’ gossip ran swiftly in the City of a Thousand Bells, then gossip among the Mageborn ran swifter, and Lycaelon had seen no reason to stifle it. He had known that within a bell at most, the Undermages who had arrested the boys would have seen to it that the details of the matter would reach their families, whether out of spite or from a hope of currying later favor. He had entertained himself with imagining the petitions that must be flying back and forth between the families involved and their High Mage heads—Isas and Breulin—as everyone scrabbled for information that simply wasn’t available.
Isas had always been something of an ally to him, but even Isas had not voted with him against Volpiril in the end, and he would pay for that now. And Breulin had always opposed his policies. It would be well to be rid of both of them.
He saw Isas first. The aged High Mage was escorted into Lycaelon’s chambers by the same Stone Golems who had summoned him from his house. The old man was quivering with such indignation that for a moment Lycaelon was sure Isas was going to drop dead on the spot and save him a great deal of trouble.
“Lord Isas,” he said cordially, “do sit down. You really don’t look well.” Light forgive him, but he
“Lord Lycaelon—what is the meaning of this?” Isas demanded.
“Oh, I think you already know,” Lycaelon said, almost purring. “The question is, what are you prepared to do about it?”
—«♦»—
THE meeting went very much as Lycaelon intended it to. Jorade was Lord Isas’s only possible heir; to keep the boy whole and unmarred Isas was willing to give up his seat on the Council and take the same oath Lord Volpiril had.
He was, in fact, absurdly grateful to do so.
“My dear Lord Lycaelon—I had no idea—no idea…” he quavered.
The elderly Lord Isas seemed to have aged a decade from the moment he had entered Lycaelon’s chambers. His skin had taken on a greyish tinge and his breathing was harsh.
“Did I not warn you—all of you—what Volpiril was, time and again?” Lycaelon’s voice was stern. “Yet none of you listened—even you, Lawell, and I thought you my friend.”
“I was—I meant to be—” Isas protested. “But—after Kellen—all of us thought…”
Lycaelon’s face froze at the mention of the forbidden name. Yet, he consoled himself, he had a new son now. A better son. A son who would be all to him that The Outlaw had never been.
“You thought I had let my emotions overmaster me,” Lycaelon said heavily. “And now you see that I acted— then, as always—for the good of the City.”
“Yes,” Lord Isas said, bowing his head humbly. “I see that now, Lycaelon.”
“Go home, Lawell,” Lycaelon said, almost kindly. “I will send Jorade to you when the mindhealers have finished with him. Treat him well. A true son is a precious gift.” He reached for the bellpull. “Let me summon a servant to escort you home. You really don’t look at all well.”
