companionship as much as anything else.”
“Perhaps. They have definite uses, though, for those of us who are not quite so… adept, as you.”
“You underestimate yourself, Golophin. There are other ways of extending the Dweomer.”
“But I do not wish to use them.” Golophin turned around at last. Standing silver in the moonlight by the window was a huge animal, an eldritch wolf which stood on its hind legs, its neck as thick as that of a bull. Two yellow lights blinked above its muzzle.
“Why this form? Are you trying to impress me?”
The wolf laughed, and in the space of a heartbeat there was a man standing in its place, a tall, hawk-faced man in archaic robes.
“Is this better?”
“Much.”
“I commend you on your coolness, Golophin. You do not even seem taken aback. Are you not at least a little curious about who I am and what I am doing here?”
“I am curious about many things. I do not believe you come from anywhere in the world I know. Your powers are… impressive, to say the least. I assume you are here to enlighten me in some fashion. If you were going to kill me or enslave me you could have done so by now, but instead you restored my powers. And thus I await your explanations.”
“Well said! You are a man after my own heart.” The strange shape-shifter walked across the chamber to the fireplace where he stood warming his hands. He looked around at the hundreds of books which lined the circular walls of the room, noted one, and took it down to leaf through.
“This is an old one. No doubt much of it is discredited now. But when I wrote it I thought the ideas would last for ever. Man’s foolish pride, eh?” He tossed the aged volume over to Golophin.
“You can touch things. You are not a simulacrum,” Golophin said steadily, quelling the sudden tremble in his hands.
“Yes. Translocation, I call it. I can cross the world, Golophin, in the blink of an eye. I am thinking of announcing it as a new Discipline. It is a wearying business, though. Do you happen to have any wine?”
“I have Fimbrian brandy.”
“Even better.”
Golophin set down the book. There was an engraving of its author on the cover. The same man—Lord above, it was the same man! But he would have to be at least four centuries old.
“I think I also need a drink,” he said as he poured out two generous measures of the fragrant spirit from the decanter he kept filled by the fire. He handed one to his guest and Aruan—if it truly could be he—nodded appreciatively, swirled the liquid around in the wide-necked glass and sipped it with gusto.
“My thanks, brother mage.”
“You would seem to have discovered something even more startling than this
“Not quite, but I am close.”
“You are from the uttermost west, the place Bardolin disappeared to. Aren’t you?”
“Ah, your friend Bardolin! Now there is a true talent. Golophin, he does not even begin to appreciate the potential he harbours. But I am educating him. When you see him again—and you will soon—you may be in for a surprise. And to answer your question: yes, I come from the west.”
Golophin needed the warmth of the kindly spirit in his throat. He gulped it down as though it were beer.
“Why did you restore my powers, Aruan? If that is who you are.”
“You were a fellow mage in need. Why not? I must apologise for the… abrupt nature of the restoration. I trust you did not find it too wearing.”
It had been the most agonising experience Golophin had ever known, but he said nothing. He was afraid. The Dweomer stank in this man, like some pungent meat left to rot in a tropical clime. The potency he sensed before him was an almost physical sensation. He had never dreamt anyone could be so powerful. And so he was afraid—but absolutely fascinated too. He had so many questions he did not know where to begin.
“Why are you here?” he asked at last.
“A good idea. Start out with the most obvious one. Let us just say that I am on a grand tour of the continent, catching up on things. I have so much to see, and so little time! But also, I have always had a liking for Hebrion. Do you know, Golophin, that there are more of the Dweomer-folk here in this kingdom than in any other? Less, since the purges orchestrated by the Mother Church, of course, but still an impressive number. Torunna is almost wholly deserted by our people now, Almark never had many to begin with—too close to Charibon. And in Fimbria there was some kind of mind-set which seemed to militate against our folk from the earliest times. One could hypothesize endlessly on the whys and wherefores, but I have come to believe that there is something in the very bones of the earth which causes Dweomer-folk to be born, an anomaly which is more common in some locations than others. Were your parents mages?”
“No. My father was an official in the Merchants’ Guild.”
“There—you see? It is not heredity. There is some other factor at work. We are freaks of nature, Golophin, and have been persecuted as such for all of recorded history. But that will change.”
“What of Bardolin? What have you done with him?”
“As I said, I have begun to unlock his powers. It is a painful procedure—such things have never been easy —but in the end he will thank me for it.”
“So he is still alive, somewhere out in the west. Are the myths true then? There is actually a Western Continent?”
“The myths are true. I had a hand in creating some of them. Golophin, in the west we have an entire world of our own, a society founded on the Dweomer. There is something back there in the very air we breathe—”
“There are more of you then?”
“I am the only one of the original founders who survived thus far. But there are others who came later. We are few, growing fewer. That is why I have returned to the Old World. We need new blood, new ideas. And we intend to bring with us a few ideas of our own.”
“Bring with you? So you mages from the west are intent upon returning to Normannia!”
“One day, yes. That is our hope. My work at present is the preparation of the world for our coming. You see now why I am here? We will need friendly voices raised on our behalf in every kingdom, else our arrivall might result in panic, even violence. All we wish, brother mage, is to come home.”
A sudden thought shook Golophin. “One moment—the wolf image. That was a simulacrum, yes?”
Aruan grinned. “I wondered when that question would come up. No, it was not. I am a shifter, a sufferer of the black disease, though I no longer see it as an affliction.”
“That is impossible. A mage cannot also be a lycanthrope.”
“Bardolin thought so also. He knows better now. I am a master of all Seven Disciplines, and I am busy creating more. What I am here tonight to ask, Golophin, is whether you will join us.”
“Join you? I’m not sure I understand.”
“I think you do. Soon I will no longer be a furtive night visitor, but a power in the world. I want you to be my colleague. I can raise you very high, Golophin. You would no longer be the servant of a king, but a veritable king yourself.”
“Some might think your ambitions a little too wide-ranging. How are you going to manage this?”
“Time will tell. But it is going to happen. The lines are being drawn all over the continent, though not many are aware of them yet. Will you join us, Golophin? I would consider it an honour to have a man such as you in our camp. Not merely a powerful mage, but a keen mind used to the intricacies and intrigues of power. What do you say?”
“You are very eloquent, Aruan, but vague. Do you fear to tell me too much?”
Aruan shrugged. “You must take some things on trust, that is true. But I cannot relate to you the details of a plan which is still incomplete. For now, it would be enough if you could at least consider yourself our friend.”
The lean old wizard stared at his visitor. Aruan’s face was angular and autocratic, and there
