The Written Page 9

  ‘Let’s go in.’ Vice motioned to the guards and they pushed hard on the big doors. They swung open agonisingly slowly.

  Farden stepped into the great hall and tried to keep his mouth from hanging open. It was like stepping into a white and gold cavern, and every time he came here it never ceased to amaze him. Marble pillars lined the room, tall white columns carved like tree trunks so that their bases spread over the floor like gnarled roots, and their tops flared out across the roof like thick ivory branches, and there they entangled themselves in the huge beams and gilded rafters that resembled the ribs of some huge fossilised animal. Light poured through windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, from one end of the hall to the other, fitted with the finest stained-glass that the artisans of Krauslung could ever hope to make. Farden watched the opalescent light play amongst the ivory branches and golden wood, and paint the white floor every colour he could imagine. He scanned the men and women and places frozen forever in the patterns of the coloured glass, their old faces emotionless and regal, staring impassively out of the windows at their successors.

  The mage kept walking and followed Vice to the back of the great hall. Almost a hundred people stood around them, loitering amongst the pillars and benches clad in robes and dresses of various hues, talking in low voices and pointing at the mage. Farden ignored them.

  In the centre of the great hall stood a statue of Evernia, surrounded by candles. Sitting at her white marbled feet were a set of gold scales, hanging balanced and even, the symbol of the Arka. High above her head a huge diamond-shaped window was open to the cold sky, and the cold wind whined across the opening. Through it Farden could see the sky turning a dusty pink with the dying sun. A single star dared to peek through the fading daylight and sparkle gently.

  At the end of the room stood three giant chairs, two equally-sized ones in the centre and a smaller one to the right. Here sat the Arkmages Helyard and Åddren, rulers of the Arka and the heads of the magick council, powerful and wise and beyond contestation. Vice swept from Farden’s side to take his place on the smaller marble chair. Guards stood in the shadows between the pillars. The hooded mage stopped several feet short of the three men on the chairs and bowed low to the ground, sweeping back his hood as he did so. There was silence in the great hall.

  ‘Welcome Farden, to the Arkathedral. I trust your journey was swift?’ Åddren spoke first. He was a short man, with kind blue eyes and a balding head sparsely decorated with copses of grey hair. Åddren was thin and ageing, but the powerful man still wore the long green and gold Arkmages robe with pride and a strict posture. He hadn’t changed one bit since Farden had last seen him.

  ‘It was, your Mage.’ Farden rose slowly and nodded with his best courteous smile. To Åddren’s right sat a tall man with a long sharp jaw and mahogany eyes that roved over Farden’s clothes and apparel. For his age Helyard was surprisingly thick-set and muscular, echoes of a long life spent on the battlefield. He sat bolt upright and stern in his tall marble throne, spine and jaw stiff with pale skinned hands resting on the broad arms of the chair. Helyard’s hair was cut short and dirty blonde in colour, with streaks of white beginning to surface through his trimmed curly locks, like worms appearing after a heavy rain. He had the habit of looking down his long nose at the people he addressed, and impatiently interrupting council members he deemed too unimportant to speak.

  The austere Helyard sighed theatrically. ‘Tell us of your findings then Farden. If this news is as urgent as I’m told, you’d best be out with it,’ he said with a dismissive wave.

  ‘Yes Lord Helyard.’ Farden nodded once more and took a breath. He spoke slowly and with a measured tone, striving to remember every detail, like Durnus had told him. He was unusually nervous in front of these old men. ‘The book that was stolen from Arfell is an old dark elf manual, a spell book for summoning daemons and beasts from the dark places. A few days ago I travelled further south into Albion to find a Siren hermit named Jergan. He had been part of the team of wizards and scholars that first discovered the book, in an ancient elf fortress in the mountains, the same team that went on to decipher and cast some of the spells. Jergan spoke of the worst and most powerful of them all, something he said they had called the mouth or mouths of darkness. They tried, and failed, to summon it, and before they got any further the Old Dragon had the book banished to a secret location in southern Nelska, and never spoke of it again.’

  The Arkmages thought in silence for a moment, and several of the council members murmured between each other conspiratorially, like gossiping maids, and then Åddren asked a question. ‘What of this Jergan, could he be the one responsible?’

  ‘No your Mage, Jergan has become a pathetic hermit, nothing but a slave to his curse,’ he paused as the others threw quizzical looks at him. ‘He was bitten years ago by a lycan on the ice fields, and since then has lived in hiding, a broken and pitiful man under the spell of the bite. He hasn’t left Albion in years and is still hiding on the moors in a wooden cabin. He’s innocent.’

  ‘And you’re sure about that,’ asked Helyard pointedly.

  ‘The murders at Arfell were committed by more than just your average magick-user, we know that,’ said Vice. Åddren nodded.

  Helyard licked his thin lips with a lizard tongue and tried on a hint of a white smile. ‘I hear a rumour that you might be one of the finest Written we have, Farden, where were you when the book was stolen?’ There was a burst of outrage in the hall, mingled with a few accusing shouts. Åddren banged his fist on his marble throne for quiet.

  Farden was shocked, and momentarily speechless, standing there with his mouth open. He tried to think of a careful answer. Silence was slowly restored, and then it hung like lead in the hall. ‘Your Mage, I agree that everyone is under scrutiny for this terrible crime, even our own Arka, but as for me,’ he looked the Arkmage squarely in the eye, ‘I was in the north of Albion, on a mission given to me by my superior.’ Farden paused, and then something kindled a little rebellious streak in his heart. ‘But perhaps, if I might be so bold in saying, that if that’s the case, then even the magick council should be considered in this investigation.’ A few more shouts from behind him and a low rumble of discontent came from the gathered council members. Arrogant bureaucrats, Farden thought, and made an effort to stand straighter.

  Åddren held up his hands for silence. ‘No one here is being accused. Farden is a loyal servant and has served us well through the years, Arkmage Helyard is merely being wary.’ Vice agreed with a murmur, and Åddren changed the subject. ‘I’m curious, why did they fail in summoning this creature?’

  Farden took the hint. ‘Jergan said that this spell would need one of the dark elven wells to bring the creature from the other side, and he also seems to think there may be one in Emaneska that we have yet to find.’

  Helyard scoffed, and a ripple of laughter ran through the council. ‘Did he draw you a map?’ shouted a mocking voice from somewhere in the crowd. Farden stood even straighter. ‘He knew something, and I believe him.’ he said confidently, looking to Vice for help.

  ‘If what Farden says is true, then I thank the gods that the Sirens didn’t ever find one, while they had this book in their possession. Such a force would have made them unstoppable.’ Vice mulled over his friend’s words.

  Åddren held up a solitary finger. ‘If the murderers need a dark magick well to summon the creature, then we have no choice but to believe this lycan, and try and find this well. Only then can we catch the ones responsible.’

  ‘Yes your Mage,’ agreed Farden.

  ‘Åddren, the wells have been lost to us for years! You cannot seriously believe that one still survives,’ Helyard chuckled in mock humour. ‘Believe me, I have led many expeditions to find one...’

  ‘As have I, Arkmage,’ interrupted Vice. ‘I agree with Farden. We need to make sure that this creature, this mouth of darkness, is never released. The only way we can do that is by getting to a well before they do.’ The Undermage look
ed Helyard squarely in the eye while he spoke, and the stern man snorted and looked away. Farden could have sworn, that for a mere moment, Vice flashed him a triumphant wink.

  Åddren cocked his head to one side, as if waiting for the answers to come to him. ‘How then, can we find a lost well now when we have been searching for decades? No clues have been found at Arfell, nor at any of our other libraries. Our records do not simply go far back enough!’

  The others in the hall were silent in thought. A few still sniggered amongst themselves, and Farden contemplated changing their minds with a quick firebolt, but he kept his hands clasped behind him and stayed where he was. And then it came to him, something Jergan had said. ‘Some of the dragons could have memories of the dark elves,’ he said. A strange silence came over the hall, a mixture of horror and deep thought.

  Vice, eyes locked on Farden, spoke up again. ‘We would need a tearbook,’ he said.

  Farden’s interest was aroused. He had only seen a tearbook once during his skirmishes in Nelska years before. He remembered them as large tomes filled with lines and lines of dragon-script, hieroglyphs that held a dragon’s memories like a sponge could hold a lake. When a dragon’s tear was dropped onto a blank page of an empty tearbook, the memories would write themselves over the pages, and the dragon could store his past in one single book to be read as a history of their lives. The older the dragon, the longer the tearbook, and some spanned millennia.

  ‘The dragon-riders have been silent for years now, and not a single messenger from Nelska has passed our gates since we agreed on the ceasefire.’ Helyard said, ‘and that was fifteen years ago.’

  Farden was starting to notice that these council sessions seemed to consist of a lot of shouting and of a lot of silence.

  ‘Vice?’ All eyes turned on the Undermage. Years ago, in one of the final battles of the war, Vice had bravely led a small group soldiers through a secret tunnel into the siege-locked fortress of Ragjarak, home of the Old Dragon Farfallen, ruler of the Sirens. After a long battle through the ice-tunnels, Vice had killed Farfallen and took his tearbook as a trophy. It was one of the few great victories of the war, and the blow had been heavy on the Sirens. Songs were still being sung in the taverns of the great Undermage and his fight with the gold dragon.

  ‘The tearbook is empty, and has been for years.’ Vice shrugged, and a susurrus of disappointment echoed through the cavernous hall. Unfortunately for the late men of Arfell, tearbooks fade when they aren’t in the presence of their dragon, and their pages go blank.

  Farden thought for a moment, and then dared to speak up again. They were not going to like this. Not one bit.

  ‘Your Mages,’ he began, trepidation building inside him. ‘What if we took the tearbook back to the Sirens, as a peace offering and a gesture of good will to...’ But he didn’t get any further: the hall exploded into outraged chaos. Shouts ricocheted around the hall.

  ‘Madness!’

  ‘To suggest such a thing is treason!’

  ‘Get him out of here!’

  Åddren held up his hands once again, but nothing happened. The noise was deafening. Helyard was incredulous. He leaned far out of his chair and gaped wide-eyed at Farden as if the mage had just squatted down and laid a golden egg on the marble floor. ‘How dare you! That is an outrage!’ bellowed the Arkmage. His face turned a crimson shade of purple. Åddren banged his fist on his throne and waved his other hand for silence, but none came. Helyard was still shouting. ‘How do we know the Sirens weren’t responsible in the first place?!’

  Farden looked to Vice for help, but he was busy shouting down another council member. The mage yelled over the pandemonium. ‘The dragon-riders were the ones who originally banished the book your Mage, and if they see how dangerous the situation is they may help us in finding the well!’

  Helyard slapped his thigh angrily and pointed at the mage with an accusing finger. ‘Of course they will, and once we do they’ll stab us in the back and summon the creature for themselves! You could start another war with your foolish actions!’ He boomed.

  ‘And you could start one with your inaction!’ snapped Farden. He could feel the magick bubbling up in his chest. He wanted to slam his fist into the Arkmage’s nose and teach him a lesson.

  ‘How dare you lecture me!’ barked Helyard, his face red and full of indignant veins, jaw pointing and condemning. ‘Guards! Remove F...’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Åddren roared, in a voice quite unnatural for his small figure, and everyone froze, and the echoes of angry words hung awkwardly in the hall. With a snort Helyard sat back in his throne and drummed his fingers on the marble.

  ‘This is a place of reason and discussion, not petty squabbling and shouting, if you want that then go find it in the streets. I will not have it hear. Now does anyone have any sense to offer?’

  After a moment Vice raised a hand and spoke in a measured tone to the hall. ‘I suggest, that Farden should go as an emissary to Nelska, and speak with the Siren elders.’ Farden fixed Vice with a shocked look. Vice held his gaze and continued. ‘I would rather gain their help, than try and face this threat alone. This concerns all of Emaneska now, not just the Arka.’ Farden fidgeted with his hands behind his back, almost excited.

  Åddren sighed. ‘Then it is down to a vote. Helyard?’ he looked at his counterpart, who still hadn’t taken his stormy eyes off of Farden. ‘Choose your side,’ said Åddren.

  Helyard was the picture of rage. Arms folded, he languished in his chair like a spiteful lizard, still boring into the mage’s skull with his wooden eyes. ‘I say that the dragon-riders are the ones to blame, and we’d be foolishly throwing everything, and I mean everything, into their claws. I say no,’ the tall man shrugged, slouched shoulders scraping against the polished marble throne.

  ‘Vice?’

  ‘I say yes,’ the Undermage said firmly, without even missing a beat. ‘Farden should take back the tearbook to Nelska.’

  Victorious drums started to play in Farden’s head. A surreptitious smile started to creep into the corner of his cheek.

  Åddren paused for a moment, and everybody seemed to hold their breath. The suspense verged on painful. He looked up from the marble floor. ‘I say yes.’

  And here entered the proud trumpets. The council rumbled with mixed opinions and a scatter of applause from about half of them. Farden saw some of them nodding and smiling to eachother, while others shook their heads and crossed their arms. He looked back to the thrones, and to Vice and Åddren ‘Thank you, Arkmages, I will not fail you,’ Farden bowed his head with a quick nod and put a clenched fist to his breastplate, where his heart was.

  ‘Vice will show you out, and find you accommodation in the Arkathedral. We will meet at the west pier of Rós at dawn. May Evernia bring you a restful sleep tonight, mage,’ Åddren said warmly, and gestured to the doors at the back of the hall. Vice stood up quickly and went to put a friendly arm around Farden. They bowed again and turned to leave. They walked through the crowded council, who stared like hawks at the two men.

  ‘Thank you,’ hissed Farden, once they were out of earshot.

  ‘Don’t even mention it.’

  The gold doors slammed shut behind them and their steps echoed loudly in the stone hallway, and somehow the narrow corridor was a relief after the claustrophobic hall. They talked and walked.

  ‘I’ve never seen Helyard like that.’ said the mage.

  Vice nodded. ‘Mhm, he’s very, what’s the word, passionate, about his views.’

  ‘And in other words...?’ Farden grinned, not convinced by his friend’s tactful words.

  ‘He’s a stubborn fuck,’ said Vice, and he looked at Farden with a serious look. ‘He should have been a tyrant or a warlord rather than an Arkmage, it would suit him better. There’s no place in the council for people like him. It’s time to compromise and open our doors, not to lock them even tighter.’

  ‘It’s been a while since I heard you speak your mind Vice, and I have to say, I prefer it t
o all that delicate democratic shit,’ said Farden, still in a low voice. The corridor seemed empty. He looked over his shoulder to make sure.

  Vice nodded. ‘And so do I.’

  ‘Åddren seems to know how to handle him.’

  ‘After twenty-five years I would expect him to. He knows things are changing, and he’s willing to change with them. The problem is Helyard has many a supporter in the council, and so Åddren has to be delicate, and democratic, and find a middle ground.’

  ‘I could never do what you do, sit there and let all the politics wash over you,’ said Farden.

  ‘No you prefer it out there in the wilderness with fire and a sword, where it’s up to you and nobody else,’ chuckled the Undermage.

  Farden patted the sword resting against his shoulder-blade. ‘Politics can run a city, or define a nation, but men and magick are still what counts. You can’t hammer in a nail with words.’

  ‘No but you can start a war with them, that’s why we still have to be careful with the Sirens,’ said Vice, and he slowly came to halt. He looked at his friend. ‘Can you handle this…Farden?’

  The mage stopped in his tracks and crossed his arms. He frowned. ‘Straight to the point. What happened to the democracy?’

  ‘I have to ask Farden, this is bigger than anything you’ve ever undertaken. You’d be the first Arka, nevermind a Written, to set foot in Nelska in fifteen years. I only suggested it be you because, well who else is there?’

  Farden tried to conceal his pride. He shrugged. ‘It has to be done, and then, if I’m the one to do it then, well that’s that, I go to Nelska.’

  Vice slowly shook his head, hiding a smile. ‘I always knew you were going to be difficult, the first day I met you. Just be careful, you’re no use to the Arka dead.’