The Written (33 page)

‘So we heard from Lord Vice
this morning, when he gave us your report...’ Åddren started, but
the stern Helyard leaned forward in his seat and held up a bony
finger.

‘Which we might add, left out
the important fact that Farfallen is still alive. I’m assuming that
neither you nor the Undermage can explain this?’ he said.

Farden looked to Vice, and then
back to Åddren and Helyard. He nodded slowly. ‘The Undermage is no
traitor, your Mage, and it is no fault of his that Farfallen still
lives. I admit that I was reticent, but I thought it best that I
tell the Undermage in private, and haven’t yet had the chance to do
so.’ Farden eyed Helyard defiantly as he spoke, but the Arkmage
snorted and looked away. Åddren opened his mouth to speak but he
was interrupted by the wailing cry of distant horns ringing out
along the walls of Krauslung. The magick council murmured
nervously.

The dragons had arrived.

Every eye turned inexorably to
the huge diamond-shaped skylight in the roof and Farden slowly
retreated to stand with Vice and Modren, who had now moved further
back towards the doors, necks bent backwards and scanning the blue
skies. A nervous hush filled the hall. Soldiers slowly took their
places in the recesses of the hall.

The pale blue sky hung above
them, crisp and empty, and nothing disturbed them. The cold breeze
was the only sound. But soon, from the ramparts and the tall towers
of the fortress beneath them, came the long warning moans of the
horns. The twin bells of Hardja and Ursufel tolled warily. A few
shouts rang out, and then a huge shadow scattered over the stained
glass windows. A faraway roar echoed through the valley.

Farden took a deep breath and
stood with his arms by his side. He glanced at Vice and the
Undermage nodded slowly at him with a look that seemed to say ‘well
done’. To his right, Modren clicked his fingers one by one, and
stared at the skies. Farden tried to relax. He turned back to watch
the roof as the deep sound of heavy wingbeats rocked the air, as if
the clouds were tumbling down the mountains.

An audible gasp came from the
crowded hall as a scarlet dragon suddenly dropped through the
skylight. The great red beast momentarily folded its wings so as to
fit through the gap and then blew a whining snort that deafened the
nearest bystanders. It dropped to the floor in front of the statue
of Evernia with a heavy thud, extinguishing more than a few of her
candles with a final flap of its crimson wings. It looked like the
dragon Farden had met briefly in Hjaussfen, Towerdawn. It solemnly
bowed its head to the Arkmages and then stepped aside a few with
ponderous steps that shook the floor. Its rider was a short woman
with copper-coloured hair that cascaded over her dark metal armour
like a rusty waterfall. She looked around the room with slow
measured turns of her head and tawny eyes.

The next dragon to drop through
the huge skylight was Brightshow. Her pale white and yellow-gold
colouring glittered in the sunlight and as she bowed her head her
horns shook and rattled. Her rider, Lakkin, if Farden remembered
correctly, sat tall and straight in his saddle at the base of her
neck. He wore black and silver armour and a very long sword was
strapped between his shoulders. His black hair had been slicked
back by the wind, and his keen eyes roved over the gathered council
members.

Farden watched the Arka
soldiers slowly manoeuvring around the hall. The tension hovered in
the hall like a taught bowstring. They waited for the last dragon
to arrive.

The hall was abruptly shaken by
a massive roar from the skies above them, and then Farfallen
descended through the skylight with a blinding flash of golden
scales. He dropped to the floor with an enormous bang and then
reared up to his full height as he tucked his huge wings behind
him. Svarta sat tall and straight on Farfallen’s long neck, with no
saddle beneath her and a small bundle of cloth in her hands. She
jumped from her dragon’s back and stood imperiously by his side.
She wore a grey leather tunic with leather and mail trousers that
clung to her long legs. A black knife hung from her side. The
blonde’s strands of hair that hung beside her flinty face flicked
from side to side while she looked around the room with quick
cat-like movements. Svarta cast a glance behind her and scowled at
Farden.

Farfallen took a deep breath
and flared his nostrils. He looked at the Arkmages, who were now
standing up in front of their tall thrones. ‘Well met and good
wishes your Mages. It has been a long time since we last met, and I
regret that it is under such dark circumstances that we greet each
other again,’ he said.

Åddren bowed low and cleared
his throat. ‘It seems to be the destiny of our peoples, to always
be at war, Old Dragon,’ he said. Farfallen nodded.

At the back of the hall Vice
folded his hands behind his back and took a few steps forward.
‘Your message did not mention the purpose of your visit,‘ he said.
He watched Farfallen suspiciously, and Farden could see his eyes
flicking to the scar on the gold dragon’s chest.

Svarta completely ignored the
Undermage behind her. Her harsh tone bounced off the walls like
pieces of shattered ice. ‘We are here for an explanation, Arkmages,
as to why you have attempted to betray us.’

‘Betray you...?’ Åddren
started, but the Siren queen cut him off.

‘Don’t play games, Arkmage.
Last night Farfallen’s tearbook was stolen from us along with the
translations we had been working on, and to help you Arka, I might
add! A score of our Sirens were slain and the murderer disappeared
into the night along with the tearbook. And now we have come here
to demand retribution!’ Her face was pale and lips pursed tight
with restrained fury. Whispers again filled the hall. Svarta looked
around her and glowered.

Åddren held a hand up and spoke
in a calm voice. ‘Your accusation makes no sense. Why would we send
you the tearbook only to steal it back again? And why are the Arka
being so readily held to blame for these crimes?’

Svarta sneered. ‘You should
know, Åddren, it was one of the Arkmages that committed this
crime,’ she said. The hall erupted with angry shouts from the Arka
and Farden could see the soldiers tensing warily. Towerdawn snarled
and rattled his spikes, and Brightshow bared her fangs.

Vice stormed forward. ‘This is
an outrage!’ he bellowed, and the crowd yelled with him. The
Undermage stared straight at the golden dragon and Svarta as they
turned to face him. Farfallen growled deep in his throat and Farden
could see flame in his eyes. Vice showed no fear. ‘How dare you
accuse the Arkmages of such a lie! What proof do you have, if any,
of this ridiculous accusation?’ he shouted. His face was flushed
and his knuckles white.

But Svarta laughed
contemptuously and waved the small bundle in her hands. ‘You want
proof, Vice? Arkmages?’ Here is your proof!’ She held the cloth
package at one end and shook it. A blood-stained gold disk tumbled
out of the fabric and fell to the floor with a metallic clang. It
bounced and rattled noisily on the marble floor as it slowly spun
to a rest just in front of the two thrones. As it fell silent, so
did the great hall, and when the disk had stopped, everyone stared
at the dried blood, and the lettering, and turned pale.

Vice was visibly shocked, and
his face dropped. Svarta tossed the bloody cloth to the floor and
crossed her arms with a smug expression. Modren looked to Farden,
but he was watching Helyard’s face closely. The Arkmage sat perched
on the edge of his throne, gripping the arms with white knuckles.
His face struggled to remain calm and composed. Farden could see
the sweat starting to gather at the roots of his dirty blonde hair.
Watching the tall man’s face, his suspicions about the Arkmage were
suddenly thrown into sharp and painful reality. With the apparent
truth looming in front of him the mage felt a sudden sickening
feeling of betrayal, as if the ice had just given way under the
hall, and the Arka were falling with it. He looked at the disk.

It was a Weight, an enchanted
symbol of office carried by all Arkmages since anyone could bare to
remember. There were two of them; one for Åddren and one for
Helyard, and together they balanced the scales sitting at Evernia’s
golden feet. Farden cast a quick look at scales hanging awkwardly
and askew, cornered and surrounded by the remaining candles.

The Weights were essentially
quickdoors, smaller and more elegant than their unwieldy cousins.
Hiding under the dried blood and lettering were powerful spells
that allowed its bearer to travel to anywhere they wished in mere
seconds. The Weights were dangerous for a mage who wasn’t strong
enough to use one, and Farden had heard many stories about users
getting the spell wrong and appearing on a mountain top or, in his
opinion worse, half in half out of a wall, crushed and dead. Only
the Arkmages could use them, and only fools tried.

Uncertainty scurried amidst the
awkward silence, and there was a terrible feeling of dread in the
hall. More than a few of the council members exchanged fearful
looks. Svarta looked about her victoriously, challenging anyone
with her scowling eyes. Farfallen was silent and brooding, waiting
for someone to say something. The other two dragons were silent,
but Brightshow wore a concerned look, and Farden watched her
shuffle her clawed feet from side to side.

Vice looked to his superiors,
and he was the first to speak. ‘Your Mages?’ he said. The
Undermage’s voice sounded strangely loud after the awkward silence,
and everyone watched the two men on their tall thrones. With a
terrible slowness Åddren lifted a hand and reached inside his gold
and green robe. Every single eye was upon him, and he looked
whiter, paler, and his sparse hair made him look suddenly very old
and frail. Carefully he pulled forth a gold disk from under his
robe, a disk that was identical to the one lying on the floor. He
lifted it high for all to see. Åddren then turned to his friend and
fixed him with a stare that could have spoken a thousand different
words. Svarta sniggered and looked to the two riders flanking her
and Farfallen, waiting.

‘Helyard?’ He said with a
cracking voice, ‘I think an explanation is needed...’

The Arkmage’s jaw was set, eyes
stuck on the Weight on the floor. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he croaked,
and licked his lips.

Svarta cocked her head. ‘Excuse
me?’

Helyard’s mahogany eyes flashed
with anger and Farden could have sworn he heard him growl at the
Siren queen. ‘I said that this is ridiculous! Gods damn it, can’t
you hear how absurd this accusation is, Åddren? I was here in
Krauslung for the entire evening, ask anyone! This is nonsense!’
His eyes were narrowed, and his expression was that of a venomous
snake caught between a spade and the heel of a boot.

‘I wouldn’t call the death of a
dozen Siren guards and the theft of the tearbook nonsense,
Arkmage,’ Farfallen warned. The tension was slowly being drawn
tighter and tighter. Farden looked up at the skylight and noticed
the clouds gathering in the sky above the great hall, marring the
crystal clear morning. Several other dragons were wheeling high
above, colourful specks on a greying backdrop.

Helyard thumped his fist
against the marble throne. ‘I am innocent of this crime! How dare
you try to blame
me
, an Arkmage! I can’t
believe these lies are actually being listened to!’ He was furious,
scrabbling weakly at explanations and constantly looking to Åddren
for help. Farden could see the guilt in his eyes now, and the mood
in the hall had turned from uncertain fear to righteous indignant
anger. Council members whispered and pointed, nodding and shaking
their heads, all thinking the same. Farden felt the anger inside
him welling up, and he contemplated dragging Helyard from the hall
himself. ‘I am not a traitor!’ shouted the Arkmage.

‘THEN EXPLAIN THIS!’ yelled
Svarta. With a snarl she kicked the Weight against the foot of his
throne.

‘Lies! It was stolen and...’
Words caught in his throat. He blinked wide-eyed, and his mouth
hung open. The clouds were darkening, and the other dragons were
soaring on the approaching gale.

Svarta spread her arms wide and
cast an accusing look around the hall. ‘Stolen! From one of the
Arkmages? Even if it had been taken from you, who else can use it
Helyard? Who?’ Several of the council members shook their heads at
her as if they were actually being blamed. ‘I didn’t think as
much,’ she said. Farfallen cleared his throat loudly, and gave
Svarta a warning look. She retreated to her dragon’s side simmering
with righteous anger.

Helyard continued to splutter
and shake with rage. He looked to Åddren again, but the Arkmage was
now slumped in the throne with his head resting in one hand. His
own Weight lay in his open palm. Vice walked calmly forward and
stood beside the Arkmage to whisper confidentially to him. Farden
wondered how much privacy they could muster under the watchful eyes
of the dragons and the rest of the hall. Ears were pricked. Vice
seemed to ask a question. Åddren shook his head once or twice, and
then nodded with a look of sad resignation at the Undermage, his
blue eyes looking as if they could shatter like glass at any
moment. Vice bowed his head and stepped back, folding his hands in
front of him calmly even though he shook with anger and
disappointment. Farden watched his friend carefully, and like
everyone else in the great hall he waited, and boiled with
tethered, indignant fury. He shared a look with Modren. The mage
was wide-eyed and unsure.

Åddren’s voice sounded like a
snapped twig in a silent forest. ‘Guards...’ he paused, and there
was a moment of abject horror pasted on Helyard’s pale face. The
clouds above were now heavy and ominous. The verdict was in.
‘...remove the Arkmage from the hall,’ managed Åddren in a quiet
breath. Vice sighed and snapped his fingers at the armoured men
standing behind the pillars. There were no shouts of protest, no
whispers from the magick council this time. Everyone in the hall
just watched, and glared.