To Light A Candle

“Good evening, Undermage Anigrel,” the butler said, bowing deferentially as he hastened to receive Anigrel’s cloak.

“Good evening. Is the Arch-Mage at home?”

“Arch-Mage Lycaelon is still at the Council House, Undermage Anigrel,” the butler said, bowing again.

“In that case, have a tray with a light supper brought up to my rooms in two chimes. See that I am not disturbed until then.”

Anigrel passed through the panel and ascended the staircase, his immediate thoughts on a hot bath and one of the exquisite meals served up by Lycaelon’s talented cook. Beyond that, there was much to do to ensure that the plot against the High Mages—such as it was—turned out satisfactorily.

For some people, at least.

—«♦»—

TO create a measure of umbrastone took approximately three moonturns, once all conditions were right. And for all conditions to be right, as Cilarnen had discovered that Light-day, was one of the reasons that umbrastone was expensive, in addition to being proscribed.

There were a lot of ingredients that went into its manufacture. Some of them were rare and difficult to acquire—certain herbs and flowers—while others, such as gold and sea-pearls, were merely expensive. And some were just peculiar, like fresh chicken eggs. It seemed a lot more like cooking than like any branch of the Art Magickal than Cilarnen had yet studied.

Strangest of all, no spells seemed to be involved at any stage of the stone’s manufacture.

“That’s because this is the Art Khemitic,” Kermis had explained when Cilarnen had questioned him. “It’s Proscribed, of course, but its essential doctrine holds that the objects of the natural world have an elemental nature possessed of innate qualities, which, when combined in specific amounts, can create objects with certain powers.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Geont had said, with a look of distaste.

“It is,” Kermis answered with a thin smile. “There are more warnings in this book than spells. Looks like fun, though, if you don’t mind getting blown up.”

“What do we do after we put all the things together?” Cilarnen had asked, trying to head off what had promised to be a lengthy debate.

“They have to be kept in total darkness at a constant temperature for three moonturns in a sealed container inside a special brazier. The Khemiticists call it an athanor.”

“An athanor?” Margon had said in surprise. “That’s a magickal tool? It’s just an oven. The Baker’s Guild uses them to extract oils from spicebark and finish delicate pastry. I can get one. They’re kind of big, though.”

“How big?” Cilarnen had asked warily.

Margon sketched a shape in the air with his hands.

“Not too bad,” Tiedor said with relief. “My birth-father is a carter. He’ll let me borrow one of the carts and teams, and he won’t ask any questions if I tell him it’s Mage-business. I can drive a cart and team, too.” He regarded the rest of them, a faint smirk on his features, and Cilarnen felt a faint pang of… guilt? Relief?

He’d always looked down on Tiedor—who hadn’t?—because of his Common blood. But it was just that—the fact that he came from the Commons and remembered what he’d learned there—that would make their plan work now.

“That’s good then. And, Tiedor—thank you. I don’t think this would work without you.” He turned to the others. “We seem to have a plan. Margon will get us the athanor, Tiedor will get the cart to transport it here, Kermis will write out the list of materials that we need to make the umbrastone, and we’ll all work on getting them. We can work out the rest of our plan while we’re actually making the umbrastone.”

—«♦»—

IT was a good plan—Cilarnen had discovered, over the last several moonturns, that he had a talent for planning—and the first part of it went exactly as he intended. The athanor was acquired, installed, tested, and seasoned—both Margon and Kermis agreed on the necessity for that.

Obtaining the ingredients for the recipe took far more ingenuity, though the six of them were wealthy by any standards but those of the Mageborn.