The Phoenix Endangered (40 page)

Zanattar wondered if this—
this
—was what all the tests and ordeals he and his people had been sent by the Wild Magic had been for. If, perhaps, Zanattar had been given the power through his passion and his sacrifice to convince those who followed the False Balance to turn from their error.
For surely, if he could turn strangers from Armethalieh Itself to the way of the True Balance, then perhaps it would be time to follow a new way, a way of words and persuasion? He spoke long and carefully, bringing forth all the words he had kept in his heart, all the words he had heard Bisochim say, all the words he knew to be true and good.

And the child rejected them all.

Zanattar knew, then, that they must be the first to die, as a sign to all who remained within the city. Perhaps this was why they had been sent forth: so that the people of Tarnatha’Iteru, seeing them die, would allow their own deaths to be quick. He reached for his
awardan
—

—and a sudden wall of light, bright and shocking, appeared between him and the children. He shouted in surprise at the unnatural thing, and his
shotor
bawled in terror, and all around him, the people were cast into confusion and terror.

By the time he could force his beast to kneel and return to the purple light, the city was gone. All that remained was the light, covering it like a great upturned bowl. He drew his
awardan
and struck it, but the steel only rang off the light, as if he had struck stone. And then Zanattar knew the true reason why they had been tested so long and so hard, given so many chances to turn aside from their path. Their great enemy had already returned to the Madiran. He had come in the form of children—did not all the ancient story-songs teach that the Endarkened could take on many forms that were fair and pleasing?

The story-songs also taught that the power of Darkness was weak at first, requiring allies and sacrifices. They must have come seeking both. But if his people were strong enough, and strong in their devotion to the Wild Magic, they could yet prevail. And victory would be won for the True Balance here.

Fourteen

City Under Siege

H
ARRIER AND
T
IERCEL
rode back to the Main Gate. The wall of MageShield was closer here than it was between the south wall of the city and the Isvaieni army, forming a corridor about twenty yards wide. Their horses kept shying, both from the sight of their own shadows on the city wall, and then from the glowing wall of MageShield. While the shape of the shield was firm and immobile, and it wasn’t at all warm, the light of its surface rippled and shifted like flames, and the horses didn’t like that at all.

After a few minutes, the noise began.

It had never really been quiet, because the city had been filled with shouting even when they left. But now everyone in the city had seen the sky turn bright glowing purple—even if they couldn’t see the fact that the city was surrounded by walls of purple fire—and it sounded as if there were riots going on in the city. Harrier only hoped the Militia was actually being of some use and keeping order, because if they weren’t, people were going to be killing each other soon.

It wasn’t just the city making noise now, either. The refugees from Laganda’Iteru had all said that the Isvaieni army had approached their walls making a lot of noise. They’d approached Tarnatha’Iteru in silence, but they weren’t silent now. They were shouting, and it sounded like chanting, and there were a lot of them. Too many to make out anything like words—it just sounded like the worst kind of winter storm back home—wind and rain and the ocean beating against the docks. Every once in a while Harrier would glance up at the top of the wall. Guardsmen stood all along the top, looking down at them, but they were
all wearing their helmets, and Harrier couldn’t see any of their expressions.

It seemed as if something like their return to the city ought to take place in eerie and utter silence, but it didn’t. There was so much noise he could barely hear himself think. He couldn’t tell what was coming from within the city, and what was coming from outside of it, and all that noise wasn’t making the horses any calmer, either. The ride back to the Main Gate seemed like the longest journey he thought he’d ever taken, and even if the inside of the city was probably just about as bad as the middle of the Isvaieni army right now, Harrier couldn’t wait to get inside, and, looking at Tiercel, he was pretty sure he felt the same way. When they got to the Main Gate, Harrier shouted up to Batho to open them up and let them in.

And Batho refused.

“Who are you?” he shouted down. He had to shout, because between the noise from the city behind him and the noise from the Isvaieni army outside of it, it was rapidly becoming impossible to hear yourself think.

Harrier swore and vaulted down off his horse. The animal promptly galloped off, but there wasn’t much of any place for it to go. It didn’t seem to care, though—it galloped off around the corner of the city and vanished from view.

“We’re the same people who left an hour ago! And now you’ve got a spell-shield around your city that the army can’t get through! And you ought to be happy about it!”

Batho withdrew from sight without answering.

Harrier went over to Tiercel’s horse. It was jerking its head skyward fretfully, but he grabbed its reins and held it steady long enough for Tiercel to dismount. As soon as he had, it trotted off after the other one, kicking up its heels as it went.

“I think he’d like it better if he knew why the shield was there,” Tiercel said quietly.

Harrier looked up at the wall. No one was in sight. “Hard to explain that to a wall,” he said.

As they stood there, the sky began to lighten. It was only possible to tell because the MageShield seemed to change color and intensity as the light outside it grew. Every few minutes, someone would glance over the edge of the wall to see if they were still there, then withdraw.

“Where do they think we’re going to go?” Harrier muttered. Tiercel only sighed.

Harrier was starting to wonder what they were going to do. They didn’t have any shelter—MageShield wouldn’t protect them from the sun—and the watering-troughs for the flocks, though outside the city and inside the shield, were fed from the city wells. Water had to be pumped into them by hand. He wasn’t sure that anyone within the city would do that for them. And if Tiercel
did
drop the shield so they could go off in search of one of the other springs, well… he didn’t think they’d reach it before the Isvaieni reached
them
. “I don’t suppose you’d consider calling Ancaladar
now?”
Harrier asked in long-suffering tones.

Just then there was movement on the top of the wall once again. Harrier looked up. “Light defend us,” he said softly. Batho was back, and standing with him was the Telchi, Consul Aldarnas, and someone Harrier recognized after a few moments’ study as the Chief Light-Priest of the Main Temple, Preceptor Larimac.

“Do you swear by the Light that you mean us no harm?” Batho shouted down.

“Oh, for the love of—Batho, if Tiercel hadn’t cast that spell, this damned city would be
on fire
right now and you know it!” Harrier bellowed back.

“We mean you no harm!” Tiercel called up. “I swear it by the Light!”

There was another long pause. The party on the top of the wall retreated.

“Do you really think
yelling
at them is going to do any good?” Tiercel demanded.

“Oh, sorry. I’m afraid I was thinking about how much fun it would be to
die
here outside the gates because they
wouldn’t let us come back inside after you’d saved their city.”

“Look, if you’d just let me—”

“Shut up,” Harrier said, because he’d heard the sound of the bars of the gates being lifted. A moment later they began to swing inward. And a moment after that, people began to emerge from the city.

First came a dozen Guardsmen, all fully armored, all with swords drawn. Next came Consul Aldarnas, surrounded by members of his personal guard, with a couple of nobles and the Telchi in attendance. Next came Preceptor Larimac and four sub-Preceptors, followed by another dozen Guardsmen. (“I wonder if there’s anyone left guarding the city?” Harrier muttered.) The Telchi must have spoken for them; it had to be why he was here, because there was no other reason for him to be in the Consul’s party.

Consul Aldarnas was a robust man old enough to have grown children. They and their families—along with his wife—had been quietly sent north sennights ago, while he had stayed behind to keep order in his city. Now he pushed forward through the mass of guards and advisors that surrounded him (none of them really wanted to get too close to the wall of MageShield except the Telchi) and walked forward until he came to a stop in front of Tiercel and Harrier.

“You are the one who has cast this spell?” he asked Tiercel.

“Yes, sir,” Tiercel answered.

“I have known many Blue Robes—you have always been welcome in my city and at my court—yet never have I known you to have such spells in your keeping,” the Consul said.

Tiercel glanced toward him, and Harrier knew that he ought to speak up, and say that
he
was the Wildmage, not Tiercel. But he remembered what the Telchi had said before, and didn’t. For all they knew, Tiercel was about to be arrested. And even if he wasn’t, there were a lot of other
people here, and any one of them might take it into their heads to blame one or the other of them—or both of them—for that army out there. He needed to be free in order to rescue Tiercel. If Tiercel needed to be rescued.

“I’m not a Wildmage,” Tiercel answered. “Once, a long time ago, there was another kind of magic, called High Magick, that those born with something called the Magegift can learn. When I discovered I’d been born with the Magegift, I studied the ancient spellbooks. There are many books about the High Magick in the Great Library at Armethalieh.”

Harrier was impressed. Nothing Tiercel had said was a lie, but the statements, taken together, provided a very different picture of things than the actual truth.

“Why have you come here?” the Consul demanded bluntly.

“The magic sent me visions of danger,” Tiercel answered simply. “I needed to know where they came from. You know, I imagine, that I have been asking if anyone in the city knows of a Lake of Fire anywhere in the desert. My vision has shown me this place. But I don’t know where it is.”

The Consul’s mouth tightened; whether it was in rueful acceptance of Tiercel’s honesty, or in irritation at the situation, Harrier wasn’t quite sure. “You’re only a boy,” he said. “If you were having visions of danger, surely there was someone you could have told? Your parents?”

“It took me a long time to learn my spells,” Tiercel said quietly. “Until I did, I couldn’t prove anything to anyone. Even afterward—all I could prove was that I could do magic. I couldn’t prove there was any danger. I can’t even prove it now. I think the Lake of Fire is somewhere in the desert. I think that whatever’s there, it’s convinced the Isvaieni to band together to attack you. The spell I’ve cast around your city is called MageShield. I’ll hold it in place as long as I can.”

If it had been up to Harrier, he would have left out the part about Tiercel needing to hold the shield in place and
possibly not being able to do it forever, but it must have been the right thing to say, because the Consul nodded. “If you and your friend will swear before the priest that you mean no harm, you may come back into the city,” he said.

It was oddly disturbing to be called upon to do something like that. Everyone knew that an oath was sacred, and an oath sworn before a Light-Priest was doubly so, but except in the cases of Nobles who married (since a marriage between Nobles could not be set aside once it was made, and so a Noble-class marriage was an oathbound matter) a person might go his or her entire life without making such an oath. Certainly Harrier had never expected to take one, unless he became the next Portmaster and married the sea just as Da had done.

But it had to be done, so both Tiercel and Harrier put their hands over the Light-Priest’s and swore an oath in the name of the Eternal Light—and in the names of the Blessed Saint Idalia and Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy (which Harrier found more than a little disturbing, knowing that he’d now met Idalia
in person
) that they meant no harm to anyone within the city walls. It was only the truth. And after that, the Consul was satisfied, or at least satisfied enough that they were beckoned to his side.

“I feared, watching, that I would need to seek out a new apprentice,” the Telchi said quietly.

“I’d been thinking the same thing,” Harrier answered somberly.

Now that the oath had been sworn, the party marched back into the city once more. It was too much to hope for that the three of them would be allowed to simply go home after that, and they weren’t.

The plaza outside the entrance to the gate was weirdly empty—guardsmen stood blocking off every entrance to it, and the ends of most of the streets were blocked off even further with makeshift barricades of carts and rubble, though people crowded the streets beyond—and they tramped across it until they came to the entrance to the
Consul’s Palace. The colonnade of pale stone glowed weirdly in the combination of dawn light and MageShield, as if the stones were lit from within.