Juliet McKenna - The Assassin's Edge

Both take time to consider this puzzle.

Jinvejen declares his forefathers have counselled suspicion of Maewehn’s priests ever since all in this common exile were driven from our true home by Sheltya malice.

Itilek allows such a sudden and unexpected loss of priestly powers looks like divine retribution but asks what might Misaen’s purpose be in doing such a thing?

Jinvejen wonders what does Misaen ask of us all in less troubled times? That we strive to better our lot through hard work and unity of purpose. It was for fear of such uncompromising strength that Sheltya rallied the weaker clans to hound our forefathers from their home. It was only such determination that brought our forefathers across the ice to these isolated rocks. Perhaps Misaen has visited his judgement upon Kehannasekke to rebuke him for seeking a new home to the south rather than returning to reclaim his true inheritance through ingenuity and valour.

Itilek points out how many generations have passed since our forefathers were exiled. Hopes of return to our true home seem ever more distant now the descendants of those that exiled us find themselves assailed by Southrons driven out of their own lands by the men of Tren Ar’Dryen.

Jinvejen reminds Itilek that Southrons are ruled by priests devoted both to Maewehn and to Arimelin and have long counselled retreat rather than making a stand for their sacred places. Cowardice has sewn the seeds of its own destruction.

Itilek asks what Jinvejen proposes.

Jinvejen suggests all ties with Southrons be cut and we tend our own hearths in amity for a full cycle of years. Misaen has shown us plainly that we have no friends but our own blood kindred. Kehannasekke’s misadventures prove all other arms will be raised against us. Let us hone our skills and bide our time, raising our sons to strength and singleness of mind. If we prove ourselves worthy, mayhap Misaen will add the edge of true magic to our hard-hitting swords once more.

Itilek agrees to consider this and undertakes to lay the hide with his hargeard that the bones might make their wishes known to him.

Thank you so very much, my dear.” Planir lifted his hands from the rim of the silver bowl, face intense. He smiled at Aritane but the courtesy couldn’t entirely banish the line between his fine dark brows.

“It is a welcome change to find my talents appreciated.” The Mountain woman’s voice was tart, her deep-set blue eyes hard.

“I’d welcome your thoughts on what may happen now,” invited Planir. He rose from his seat across the table from Aritane. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“Some wine, white if you please.” Aritane smiled at some passing thought before her face returned to its guarded expression.

Planir poured two glasses of a straw-coloured vintage from a dark bottle adorned with a crumbling wax seal. Resuming his seat, he passed one over. “So Ilkehan is dead. What does that mean for us?” The Archmage was in his shirtsleeves, a silk shirt befitting his rank.

“The manner of his death interests me.” Aritane’s exotic accent sat oddly with her everyday gown of Caladhrian cut; serviceable wool dyed a neutral fawn. She raised a hand to brush the corn-coloured sweep of hair falling loose to her shoulders away from her narrow face.

“I take it that savagery has some point beyond simple bloodlust?” Planir gestured towards the empty water. “And the masquerade?”

“If his people believe Ilkehan’s arrogance has summoned retaliation from the Gebaedim—” Aritane pressed her full lips tight together. “The confidence of his acolytes and thus their power will be all the more thoroughly broken.”

“When can we establish what aetheric strength remains, among the Elietimm or in Suthyfer?” asked Planir slowly. “I don’t want to risk anyone working magic if there’s the slightest chance they might suffer Otrick’s fate.”

Aritane retreated behind the curtain of her hair. Planir waited patiently.

“I will look for a mind open to true magic tomorrow,” she said finally. “Then we can judge the consequences of Ilkehan’s death.”

“We have many consequences to consider.” Jovial, Planir disregarded Aritane’s sour tone. “Without Ilkehan to menace you or your people, you should consider your opportunities in the world beyond Hadrumal. The universities at Col and at Vanam would welcome your insights into the study of aetheric enchantments.”

“I’ve met some of these scholars in your libraries. I wouldn’t spend a night on a bare mountain with any of them.” Sarcasm tainted Aritane’s words. “So you want rid of me?”

“Not in the least.” Planir’s unemotional reply made his sincerity ring all the more true. “I value your skills highly. Archmage or no, I could never have dared this scrying without your Artifice to defend me.” He waved his wine glass at the silver bowl. “But I would like to see you find a place where your considerable talents are accorded due respect—and I don’t just mean your mastery of aetheric arts.”

Aritane made a non-committal noise before taking a sip of wine. “Sheltya remain, even if Ilkehan is dead.”

“Is there no way you could make your peace with them?” Planir asked gently.

“When I serve as your scholars’ conduit into the secrets of the wise?” Aritane set down her glass with a snap that slopped wine on to the polished table top. “I hardly think so.”

“The books we’ve just recovered from Ilkehan’s library should hold more than enough secrets to satisfy the mentors of Col, Vanam or anywhere else.” Unperturbed, Planir gestured at a door skilfully concealed in the panelling of the far wall. “I would see you make peace with the Sheltya so you may be free to live your life as you wish. Until that day comes, I will defend you to the best of my abilities against Sheltya, Elietimm and all who might disparage you hereabouts.”

Aritane blushed a scarlet unbecoming to her pale complexion. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“As you wish.” Planir rose to bow courteously. “But remember, my door is always open to you.”

Aritane left without a backward glance, pace audibly increasing as she disappeared down the stairs. Planir stood by the door for a moment, combing long fingers through his hair. He heaved a sigh that could have been frustration, irritation, exhaustion or all three together before kicking the door shut.

Hair in unruly spikes, he ignored his untouched glass of wine and walked to the tall window. He gazed out far beyond the stone-slated roofs of Hadrumal. “How soon can I go scrying for you, my darling?” he murmured. A mirror stood on the sill beside him, steel-bright within the dark mahogany frame, a silver candlestick beside it, empty.

Something in the courtyard below caught Planir’s eye. “Splendid timing as always, Hearth Master,” he muttered sardonically.

He moved quickly, smoothing his hair to its customary sleekness and catching up his formal robe from its hook on the back of the door. He shrugged it on as he removed Aritane’s glass from the table, mopping the spill of wine with his sleeve. His hand hesitated over the scrying bowl but with a smile teasing the corner of his mouth, he let that be.

“Enter.”

Kalion knocked and opened the door, barely waiting for the Archmage’s permission before marching in. Planir was sitting in the window seat, glass of wine on the sill beside him, one hand in his breeches pocket while the other held a small book bound in age-worn leather faded to a pale jade. His feet rested on a chair pulled carelessly askew from the table.

“Have you ever read any of Azazir’s journals?” Planir frowned at the crabbed writing still vividly black on the yellowed pages.