The walls of the Mage City of Armethalieh, called the Golden City, the City of a Thousand Bells, had stood for a thousand years. High Magick had built it, High Magick ruled every detail of its daily life and that of its citizens, and the High Council labored tirelessly to make sure that for its pampered careless citizens, every day was much like every other — and that more, no one who lived there could imagine a time when that was not so.

Except for a tiny minority among the ruling council of High Mages, their memories hedged about with wards and spells, no one knew the history of Armethalieh. None of her citizens could imagine a time before her walls had risen, a time before wealth poured into her coffers from carefully-controlled trade with all the world — a world which was nevertheless barred from walking her city streets, for Armethalieh was, first and foremost, a city for Armethaliehans, and outsiders were not tolerated. Her wealth, her privileges, and her magic were for her citizens alone . . . and, in judicious moderation, for the Home Farms, those lands just outside the Western Gate that provided the crops that fed the Golden City's teeming multitudes.

Or so matters had stood until recently.

Change had come to the Golden City.

The City was ruled by her Mages, and the Mages were ruled by the High Council. The High Council was ruled by the Arch-Mage, but the twelve High Mages who shared the dignity of a seat on the Council all looked to the day when one of them might supplant him, and now that Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon's son and heir had been Banished for practicing the forbidden Wild Magic, his control over his fellows was less than absolute. Each of them looked to consolidate his own power, to make himself the next Arch-Mage of Armethalieh . . . and soon. Usually the Arch-Mage had to die before the power passed to another — but not always. And there were those who were thinking that it might be no bad thing for the Lycaelon Tavadon to be. . .persuaded. . .to retire.

Of the twelve, Lord-Mage Volpiril was the most ambitious. When Lycaelon's bid to annex the Western Hills, and add those lands to those the City already claimed, collapsed in disaster, Volpiril had suggested — in a direct, though veiled, attack upon Lycaelon — that the Council withdraw its borders to the walls of Armethalieh herself, abandoning their claim on not only the Western Lands, but even withdrawing their claim on the Home Farms.

The Council, rattled by the mysterious defeat of its Mages in the West, and swayed by Volpiril's speechmaking, had voted its assent. Lycaelon could not overrule them, though he had taken a grim pleasure in casting the lone dissenting vote.

The effects of the Council's new policy weren't felt immediately in the streets of the City, of course. It took time for the lawspeakers to ride out to all the villages with the new edicts, time for the stocks of spell-preserved grain and produce in the warehouses to dwindle.

Some of the villagers greeted the news that they were no longer the property of the City — and might set what prices they liked for what had once been Armethalieh's by right — with cheers of delight. Others, more perceptive, were quick to see that if Armethalieh's control was withdrawn, so was her Magick. There would be no more healing for the villagers, no pest control or destruction of blight, no preservation for their grain-storage, no certainty of favorable weather for planting and harvest.

The petitions piled higher on Lycaelon's desk each day, arriving with each cart of overpriced produce and gaggle of hysterical rustics until, with a malicious sense of justice, Lycaelon had set Volpiril to deal with the matter, reminding the High Mage that it was a violation of Armethaliehan law to expend her Magick for the benefit of anyone but her citizen or subject peoples. And so, if the Delfier Valley farmers no longer belonged to Armethalieh it was Volpiril's duty to explain why that Magick would no longer be employed in their service. . . .

But in the marketplace, the prices rose. And kept rising.

It could not be helped. Through Volpiril's vicious bungling, the farmers must now be paid for their produce. The City could absorb some of the cost, but not all, and not forever. So the prices rose, for everything from turnips to sugar biscuits. No one knew why, of course. It was not in the Council's interest that they should.

And this year of all years, Lycaelon thought with a sigh, sliding the latest summary of reports into a drawer in his desk and locking it. The winter rains promised to be exceptionally heavy, according to the reports. It wouldn't matter within the City itself, of course, where the Mages ensured that rain only fell late at night, and only in sufficient quantity to water the gardens and keep the cisterns filled. But there would be flooding in the Valley this year, since the Mages had withdrawn their protection from the Home Farms. Undoubtedly that would mean a poor crop in the Spring.

He got to his feet, stretching, cursing the stiffness in his muscles. He glanced toward the small office just off his own, but no light showed beneath the door. As it should be. He had stayed late, reading — and had sent Anigrel home bells ago. As he left his office, waving the mage-lights to darkness behind him, Lycaelon could feel the faint hum of power from the Council Chamber, where Mages worked tirelessly, as they did every night, weaving the elaborate and beautiful spells of the High Magick for the good of the City. He shook his head. Light grant a spell to preserve us from the maddened ambition of fools like Lord Volpiril, Darkness take him!

Master Undermage Chired Anigrel — his abrupt increase in rank a sign of the signal favor in which Lycaelon Tavadon held him — regarded his new accommodations with a satisfaction he was careful not to display before witnesses.

The suite of rooms on the third floor of House Tavadon had had every trace of their former occupant ruthlessly expunged. Every stick of furniture had been sent into storage in the house's vast attics. The walls had been scrubbed down and repainted to an even more marmoreal shade of white. Suitable furnishings had been acquired to outfit one of the two rooms as a comfortable — but not over-luxurious — bedroom, the other — the one with the excellent view of the gardens and the Council House — as a workroom and small study, and all carefully coordinated to be in the House colors of black, silver, and white. When the renovations were finished, no trace of the former occupancy of Lycaelon Tavadon's Banished Outlaw son remained, and the suite appeared to be another perfectly fitted extension of Lycaelon's taste. There was no sign of Anigrel's own personality here. This was exactly as Anigrel wanted it. He wished for Lycaelon to think of him as an extension of himself.

Anigrel retained his rooms at the Mage College, of course. It would not do to flaunt openly what everyone knew — that he now lived at Tavadon House, Lycaelon's adopted son in all but name.

And perhaps, someday, in name as well, Anigrel thought, settling back in his chair. Lycaelon had no one else. Both his children had given themselves to the Wild Magic and been Banished from the City. And Anigrel had taken pains to make himself so very indispensable to the Arch-Mage over the past moon-turns, though he was certain that Lycaelon — so innocent in his way! — did not know the half of what Anigrel did for him.

The Mageborn were greedy for power, and ruthless in their unending quest for rank and position. As Lycaelon's private secretary, Anigrel saw many Mageborn every day, yet was nearly invisible himself; one more grey-robed underling doing the work of the City. It had been a simple thing with an innocent comment here, a casual observation there, to shape the opinion of the Mageborn and turn it inexorably against Lord Volpiril, so that the Mages now saw disaster in the High Mage's ever-more-desperate makeshifts and pronouncements before the Council, and they saw it before the trouble actually appeared. As the situation in the City worsened, Volpiril's position would become even more unstable. It was not impossible that he would be voted off the Council, though such a thing hadn't happened in centuries.

Actually, not only was it not impossible, the higher that prices for food and other commodities rose, and the lower the quality dropped, the more likely it became. And if actual shortages began to appear, then Lord Volpiril's days on the Council could be numbered in sennights.

That would leave a vacancy.

Anigrel meant to have it for himself.

He was already a Master Undermage, elevated to that rank years ahead of time, and there was already talk — not discouraged by Anigrel, though for once he hadn't needed to start the rumors himself — that Lord Lycaelon would soon sponsor him for the tests to the rank of Magister-Practimus, if not Magister-Regnant. Either rank would be sufficient to allow him to take a seat on the Council.

Anigrel had no doubt of his ability to pass the tests. The difficulty all these years had been in concealing the extent of his power, not passing the test his Mageborn teachers set.

For Anigrel's power stemmed from a far different source, and his true teachers were far more powerful, and far, far more dangerous than any High Mage could imagine being.

It was the other reason he retained his rooms in the Mage-Courts, for there were things he did there that could not be done within the walls of the house of the Arch-Mage of Armethalieh. Things in comparison with which dabbling in the Wild Magic was a child's trifle, a thing beneath consideration.

There was a faint scratching at the door panel. With a gesture, Anigrel caused the door to dissolve. A servant, in the stark correct black and white livery of House Tavadon, stood in the doorway.

"Lord Anigrel. The Arch-Mage arrives," the servant said, bowing.

Anigrel nodded, dismissing the servant as he got to his feet. The servant bowed again, and backed away the prescribed three steps before turning to go.

The servants might have treated Kellen Tavadon with indifference and contempt, but it had taken little effort for Anigrel to teach them proper manners in his presence. And just as he wished them to show him every courtesy, so it would not do for him to be remiss in showing Lycaelon every evidence of humility, deference, and respect.

Until the Arch-Mage no longer mattered.

Humility, deference, respect — and just now, a touch of proper concern was in order. "Lord Arch-Mage. You are weary."

Anigrel arrived in the reception room just as Lycaelon entered. The tim.ing was perfect

"Anigrel. I sent you to your bed hours ago," Lycaelon said, looking — yes — gratified to see Anigrel.

"Some trifling matters occupied my attention," the younger man said. "And I was . . . concerned by the burdens you bear for us all, Lord Lycaelon," he added softly.

Lycaelon smiled faintly. "I am accustomed to them, my young friend. But perhaps, of your kindness, you will take a glass of wine with me in the library? After so many years of laboring in the circle for the good of the City while the common folk dream, it still seems odd to sleep at night."

Anigrel followed Lycaelon through the panel that led into the large formal library. Lycaelon seated himself in a chair beside the window — the long sapphire-blue drapes were drawn now, since it was night — and Anigrel went to the sideboard and collected a decanter and two glasses. The decanter shimmered faintly with the Preservation Spell that kept its contents fresh and unchanged, no matter how long it stood untasted and unopened. Ostentatious, and yet frugal; ostentatious to use a spell on something like a decanted bottle of wine, yet frugal to have the spell to keep the wine from spoiling after it had been opened, when one only wanted a glass or two at a time.

He set the glasses on the small table between the two chairs and poured them both full, handing one to Lycaelon before taking his own seat. He waited for Lycaelon to drink, then sipped his own wine appreciatively. A rare moment and a rare vintage, brought by Selken ships from Ividion Isle, the only place in the world where the salt-marsh grapes could grow. At least the Out Islands were not affected by Volpiril's policies. This would not be the last such bottle obtainable.

Lycaelon laughed, his thoughts on a private joke. "Ah, if only the commons could see us now, Anigrel — they would be shocked! They think we live on light and air and pure well-water — and we do our part to keep them thinking that way, don't we?" He drained his glass and filled it again, before Anigrel could do it for him.

"Of course, Lord Lycaelon. It's unthinkable that the common clay should have any reason to criticize their masters. They're happier that way," Anigrel said. "Far better that they believe there is nothing to envy us for."

"Of course they are," Lycaelon said. "Everything we do is for them . . . and for the good of the City. Envy is a bitter thing, and would only disturb their peace."

"Oh yes. Of course," Anigrel said, making sure his words rang obviously hollow. He sipped his wine and waited.

"You must tell me if there is something concerning you, Anigrel," Lycaelon said. "It is not only the commons that I serve, but my fellow Mages."

"I can conceal nothing from you, Lord Lycaelon," Anigrel said with a rueful smile. "But . . . you know it better than I, and I do not wish to add to your burden. And yet . . . you know that I hear what you do not, simply because there are those who will say in front of me what they will not say to the Arch-Mage?"

"I depend upon it," Lycaelon said. "I do not think you can surprise me, Anigrel, and your words may serve the City. Tell me what worries you. Do not fear to offend me, for I already know that you love the City as much as I."

"You know that Lord Volpiril has — perhaps! — not acted entirely in the City's best interests in a certain recent instance. At present, the circumstances are known only to those of our own class, but the effect of that action cannot be concealed. Many believe that soon these circumstances will become known outside the Mageborn. The effects of that knowledge could be . . . unfortunate."

"Unfortunate? Disastrous!" Lycaelon nearly groaned. "Without weather-magic, there will be famine in the Delfier Valley in the spring. There will be no food available for sale to the City at any price. Yet that fool blocks any attempt to reverse his policies, saying they will bear fruit with time. Fruit! Oh yes, and the fruit will be a bitter and withered harvest!"

Anigrel leaned forward. "Lord Lycaelon, do not let your merciful and charitable nature keep you from doing what must be done. To discredit Volpiril's policies, discredit Volpiril first. Without him to goad them on, The Council will gladly abandon something so worthless—"

But Lycaelon had raised his hand, silencing Anigrel.

"To force him from the Council without the support of my fellow-Mages would be a greater disaster than riots in the streets of the City. I shall seek that support, and pray to the Light that I find it in time. And now, I find I am weary, Anigrel. I give you good night."

"Rest well, Lord Arch-Mage." Anigrel got to his feet, bowing, and left the library.

He was not wholly dissatisfied with the evening's work. He had planted the ideas in Lycaelon's mind that he'd wanted to. Now Lycaelon was thinking about eliminating Volpiril before the City was in open rebellion against the Mageborn. All Anigrel had to do was give Lycaelon a good excuse.

And just as Lycaelon once had, Volpiril had a son.

A most malleable son . . . .

Cilarnen Volpiril was a perfect example of a Mageborn son, All the Mageborn were slender and fine-boned, their bodies shaped by no physical labor more arduous than lifting a wand or a pen. Their coloration was vivid: black, blond, or red hair running strongly in particular Mage-families; in this they stood out sharply from the common-born, whose hair-color was muddied with brown, and whose bodies were stockier than those of the pure-blooded Mages. Oh, from time to time one with Mage talents arose in a common family, but such were marked by their very appearance as common-born, and though it would never be openly acknowledged, that appearance would keep them from rising far within the ranks. Perhaps, in time, such a common-born Mage could find a pure-blooded daughter of an insignificant family to marry, and by the third or fourth generation, his descendants would be of an acceptable appearance. But for him — well, there were limits, and properly so.

The Volpiril line had auburn hair; Cilarnen could inspect the portraits of noteworthy Mage ancestors that graced the walls of House Volpiril and see his own russet hair — cut fashionably short in the latest style — and pale blue eyes depicted there with the precision of his bathing-room mirror. Only the styles changed, and that not by a great deal, except in the very oldest portraits, for was it not Armethalieh's greatest boast that she was as unchanging as her walls?

His family's history had been one of privilege, service, and Magick for uncounted generations, and the niches in the walls of the family Chapel in House Volpiril were filled with golden alabaster urns containing the ashes of great Mages who had brought luster to the family name. Until last Winter, Cilarnen had been serenely certain that he would follow in their footsteps just as his father had, rising quickly and pleasantly through the ranks of Adeptship — for his studies in the High Magick had always come easily to him — and seeing no other possible future for himself than one spent as a Mage of the Mage-City. A privileged post in one of the more important City Councils, inevitably, just as soon as he attained sufficient rank. A seat on the High Council, not impossible. And perhaps the Arch-Mageship itself, for Volpirils had held that post in the past, nearly as often as the Tavadons, and Lord Lycaelon Tavadon could not live forever. . . .

But all that had been — before. Before his mistake; before his disgrace.

Cilarnen had two sisters, much younger, who were being carefully groomed to someday take their places as the pliant dutiful wives of his peers, but they scarcely mattered to his carefully-ordered life, having been placed under the care of nurses and governesses — and Cilarnen's distant, well-bred, Mageborn mother — from the time they could walk. Dialee had been born when he was six, and Eshavi when he was eight, and Cilarnen, encouraged by his father, had already been looking toward the future, toward the day when he could pledge himself as a citizen of Armethalieh and begin his studies in High Magick.

The day when he would take his place within the walls of the great School of Magick, and receive from his father his own tutor to advance him faster than those whose father could afford no such extra help. The day when he could start the course of examinations that would set him on the path to success.

Women had no place in the life of a young Mage. Students did not marry, did not court, did not admit the existence of women. Nor did Apprentices. A Journeyman might, but only after he had reached his thirtieth year, if his patron gave him permission, and only if he had decided he did not wish to advance farther in the ranks of the Art Magickal. Only if one advanced so swiftly by examination (and careful networking by one's parents and careful manipulation by one's self) that a higher rank than Journeyman was in one's grasp, did a young Mage have cause to think of women before the age of thirty.

Well — marriage with a woman, at any rate. There were other women, whose company and skills could be purchased readily enough for the ease of one's body. But that was akin to hiring a horse for a jog through the park; exercise with a dumb beast, interchangeable with any other dumb beast, and nothing more than that.

And even then, marriage among the Mageborn was not a matter of love, but of consolidating one's position, of repaying past favors or of buying future ones, of choosing the best possible mother for future Mageborn sons. Cilarnen knew all that. Love was a madness that afflicted the unGifted, a sickness of the magickless Commons who thronged the streets of the City outside the Mage Quarter. His kind were above such things.

Then he saw Lady Amintia.

It was quite by accident. He'd come home unexpectedly in the middle of the day — a spell had gone awry during the morning lessons, and his tutor had fallen ill and been unable to see him for his afternoon's private lesson. On a rare whim, he'd decided to go riding instead, and gone home to change.

His rooms overlooked the gardens of House Volpiril. He'd gone to the windows and opened them, stepping out onto the small balcony, and as he did, he stepped through the silence spell that shielded his rooms, and heard peals of laughter coming from the garden below.

He looked down.

The garden was filled with females.

He recognized none of them — though logically, two of them must be his sisters. There were perhaps two dozen of them, all running about in a fashion Cilarnen himself had given up a dozen years before, playing some sort of elaborate game of touch-and-run, crying out and laughing as they scored off one another. Their faces were flushed and shiny with exertion, their hair tumbled down around their shoulders, their veils and scarves scattered about the grass like strange drifts of brightly-colored mist. Along one wall of the garden, a long table stood, severe and correct in white linen, its burden of refreshments awaiting the moment when the ladies tired of their fun.

Cilarnen blinked, feeling almost as if he had opened one of the Forbidden Books and read something he was not meant to see. He looked away from the others and saw . . . her.

She did not join in the jostling games of the others, but stood watching them, her back to the base of the enormous magnolia tree that dominated the Volpiril garden. Her raven hair was bound neatly and suitably at the base of her neck, and just as Cilarnen looked down, she looked up. Her eyes were such an intense shade of blue he could see their color clearly, even across the garden.

He did not know what he expected her to do. Like all proper young Mageborn youths, Cilarnen had barely even seen a woman of his own class. But she simply regarded him, saying nothing, and doing nothing to draw unwelcome attention to him.

"Amintia! Come join us!"

One of the others called her name, and she looked away, shaking her head and smiling gently. Cilarnen backed into his room, blushing in hot confusion as the blessed silence of the Shielding Spells enfolded him once more.

What had just happened?

He didn't know. But he liked it. He went to the window again, taking care to stay well within the spells. Here he could see out without being seen. He stood at the window, watching, until the garden was empty, his plans for the afternoon forgotten.

It was easy enough to find out who she was. His father kept a comprehensive genealogy of the Mageborn families in the Main Library, and the Mageborn did not repeat names within generations. She was Lady Amintia of House Amaubale. Lord Amaubale was a Mage who served on the Council of Public Safety; she had two brothers, Nathuren and Pretarkol, who were several years behind Cilarnen at the Mage College.

She was someone House Volpiril might ally itself with — someone he might have. But not for years — an unimaginable number of years, more years than he had already lived. And what if her father bestowed her elsewhere in the interim?

It was an unbearable thought, and one that began to obsess him as the sennights passed. His studies suffered — if only a little — by his distraction. He even disgraced himself so far as to seek out the Amaubale residence and walk past it. Once.

And at last, he came up with a plan.

He would seek his father's agreement to a betrothal. That would solve all his problems. No one else would marry Amintia. She would be his, waiting for him until the day when he was prepared to claim her. It was the perfect solution to his problem — his obession.

Unfortunately, his father did not agree.

Once each moonturn, Cilarnen was accustomed to receive a private audience with his father, so that he could make an informal account to Lord Volpiril of his progress with his studies — though of course his father received detailed reports from his tutors — and give Lord Volpiril his own impressions of his relationships with his peers. Perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that he gave his father his assessment of his current, and perhaps future, rivals. Generally these occasions had been relatively pleasant affairs, with Lord Volpiril taking the opportunity to make some small gift to Cilarnen — of pocket-money, a book, or some newly-fashionable accessory — to indicate his pleasure with Cilarnen's diligence. That audience seemed the perfect time to make his plea, and he approached his father's study fully confident that he would emerge from it with all his troubles smoothed away.

He opened the door, and bowed. "My Lord Father."

As always, Cilarnen entered his father's private study precisely at the Second Afternoon Bell of Light-Day. So it had been since he had begun his studies in the Art Magickal, and Cilarnen could not imagine a time when it would not be so. His interview invariably lasted precisely two chimes.

He stopped before his father's desk and bowed a second time. As always, his father was working, even at home and on Light-Day. Lord Volpiril was a High Mage and a member of the High Council. His duty to the City was never-ending; this was a credo he had drummed into his son from the day Cilarnen could walk, talk, and perhaps, make demands on his father's time. So from that time, it had been made very clear to him that the City came first, and Cilarnen a very distant second.

"Ah, Cilarnen." His father looked up as he approached the desk. "So it is Light-Day once again. What news do you have to bring me?"

For most of a chime Cilarnen spoke of ordinary things; his progress in his Magickal studies and his relationships with his fellow students. Then, quickly, he presented the matter nearest to his heart.

"There is another matter, sir, a matter of a young woman, my Lord Father — a daughter of House Amaubale. Her name is Amintia; I am sure Mother knows her. I believe — subject to your approval, of course, sir — that this would be an excellent alliance for us when the time comes. I know that it is far too soon for me to consider marriage — far too soon; I had not thought of such a thing before I saw this young woman — but she is — I find her — it is a good match. I have consulted the genealogy, and House Volpiril has married into House Amaubale in the past. So I thought, if you would consider it, perhaps a pre-contract—"

Intent upon convincing his father of the logic and worth of this plan, Cilarnen was not watching Lord Volpiril's face. Then, with a scrape of his chair that startled his son, the High Mage rose to his feet, his expression furious.

"`A pre-contract?' To think that I would hear such words upon the lips of my own son! Are we merchants or nobles? We are Mageborn! Magick flows in our blood! It is a sacred calling, one that requires the utmost dedication." Volpiril's face was flushed scarlet, and Cilarnen shrank back, involuntarily, before his wrath. "There can be no room in the thoughts of the Student or the Apprentice for anything but dedication to his Art. Have you gone utterly mad?"

"But — " Cilarnen stammered.

Volpiril's jaw clenched. "Your tutors had mentioned you were strangely unwilling to apply yourself of late. I had meant to ask you the reason today! And now, now you flaunt it proudly, and dare to demand that I aid you in your foolish descent into emotionality. Where did you come by such a notion? Why, I would have expected this sort of nonsense out of a silly girl enthralled with romantic wonder-tales, not out of a well-educated son! Shall I remove you from school and dress you in a gown, next?"

Cilarnen flushed, his face and neck growing uncomfortably hot. He said nothing. He could not bring a single word up out of his constricted throat.

His father snorted. "It is fortunate you did not forget yourself entirely, and brought this to my attention before you made yourself a public scandal." Lord Volpiril's tone was harsh.

"I— But— It has been done in the past . . . ." Cilarnen protested weakly. "Great-Grandfather—"

"If you need no other lesson in why the companionship and social interaction of females is forbidden to young Mageborn, consider your own actions today! Look what this has brought you to!" Volpiril stormed. "Open rebellion, daring to contradict me beneath this very roof! I will not have it! You, sir, may consider yourself on notice. And be sure that I will speak to Lord Amaubale and make quite certain his daughter never sets foot in this house again."

Cilarnen felt himself grow as cold as he had been heated a moment before. Never to see her again! But —

"You have displeased me greatly today, Cilarnen." Volpiril took a deep breath, and stared down at his son. "Very greatly. But you still have a chance to make amends. Apply yourself strictly to your studies. Reclaim your pride of place in your classes. Forget this cozening creature — no doubt she merely thought to entrap the son of a High Council Mage for her own advancement. Women are manipulative, secretive, and no matter how sweetly innocent they may seem, even the youngest of them is as adept at spinning webs to ensnare an unwary young man as any spider. When I speak to her father, I shall advise him to see her quickly married. That will put an end to her foolishness!" Volpiril said darkly.

Cilarnen stood, frozen in shock. Amintia — his Amintia — married to someone else? He'd never see her again . . . .

"You may go, Cilarnen," Lord Volpiril said brusquely, sitting down once more and returning his attention to the papers before him. From his demeanor, his son might as well have ceased to exist. All that Cilarnen could do was to bow, and take himself out.

#

His father's displeasure was bad enough, but far worse was the terrible possibility — no, inevitability — that Amintia was going to be lost to him forever. Once Volpiril put his mind to something, it was as good as accomplished. Cilarnen knew that if he was to get back in his father's good graces, he must do as his father instructed and put her from his mind, but somehow he did not think that he could manage to do that without telling her — just once — how much she had meant to him.

He thought of writing her a letter, but after several attempts, Cilarnen gave up. He couldn't find the proper words, and anyway, if he sent a letter to her house, her parents would read it first. His father read all of his infrequent correspondence, and Cilarnen had no doubt the custom was universal.

But he could write her a poem. An anonymous poem. That would be best, and safest, too. Poetry was one of the classes taught at the Mage-College, and Cilarnen was fairly confident of his ability to write something suitable, something that would move her heart, and perhaps make her pity him. Besides, ever since he'd seen Amintia, somehow poetry had made so much more sense to him than it ever had before.

He labored over his work for sennights, as winter passed into early spring, copying the final result out onto a slender scroll, which he tied with a silver ribbon. After moonturns of watching the house, he knew all of the Amaubale household servants by sight. He would simply arrange to be in the Garden Market at the same time that one of them was there, and give the creature a few coins to pass the scroll on to Lady Amintia.

Then she would know that someone had loved her — not for her family or her position, but for her incomparable eyes, rare as blue roses, for her grace, for her quiet beauty, for all that made her the Lady Amintia.

The scroll had vanished before he could deliver it, and the next time Cilarnen had seen it, to his utter horror and humiliation, it had been in the hands of Mage Hendassar, in his History of the City class. Mage Hendassar had read it out loud to the entire room of students.

They had laughed. Laughed at him, at his weakness, at his foolishness.

Cilarnen would gladly have died. He hated Mage Hendassar, hated his classmates, hated his father — there was no doubt of how the scroll had come into Mage Hendassar's hands, nor who had suggested what he do with it — and most of all, perversely enough, he hated the Lady Amintia as much as he had heretofore loved her.

This was her fault. If he had never seen her, none of this would have happened. No female was worth such agony.

His father had been right.

Life might have been utterly unbearable if his father had ever made any reference to the matter, but Lord Volpiril did nothing of the sort. Of course, he had not needed to. The tale spread all over the Mage-College, of course, and might have hounded him for the rest of his years, if not for the fact that only a fortnight later, the Arch-Mage's only son Kellen Tavadon was summoned before the High Council, and after that none of them ever saw Kellen Tavadon again.

This was a far more interesting scandal than a simple love poem, since not one of the students had the least idea of what the "half-blood barbarian" might have done, and none of them was ever able to find out. Some people swore they had seen Kellen working as a laborer down in the Low Quarter — as if that were possible. Others said he had fought with the Arch-Mage and been sent to live in one of the farming villages as a punishment.

All Cilarnen knew was that if people were talking about Kellen, they weren't talking about him, and he was profoundly grateful. He had learned his lesson, and he would work harder than ever before to be the son his father wanted.

But somehow, strangely, it did not seem to be possible. Because from that moment on, nothing, nothing that he did was ever good enough.

Spring became summer. Lord Volpiril's temper was always short these days. No matter what Cilarnen did, his father only told him he must do better, in ever-harsher words of criticism. And all of it was so unjust! He was trying! He was at the top of several of his classes! His tutors all voiced themselves satisfied with him! Yet his father acted as if he was putting forth no effort whatsoever. He seethed with resentment under the unjust critique. And he began to wonder if it was not he who was at fault, somehow failing, but his father.

The sons of the other Council Mages whispered fantastic gossip of unrest on the Mage Council, of great plans afoot.

Cilarnen did not know what they were, of course. Volpiril did not speak of them, and the days when Cilarnen might bring the rumors of his friends to his father and ask for more information were long gone now. Volpiril spent less time at home than ever before, and seemed to want less to do with his son than before. If Cilarnen had been taken second place in his father's concerns before, he now felt as if he had descended to last in priorities, and he felt oddly lost, and somehow cheated.

If not for his tutors, he would have been utterly alone.

Like most young Mageborn, Cilarnen's lessons included practice in dance and swordplay as well as in the Art Magickal. He had little practical use for either, but both were good exercise, and the practice of the Art Magickal was an arduous business, requiring great stamina, both mental and physical.

Three times a sennight he went to Master Kalos's salon at the edge of the Mage Quarter for his lessons in reed-blade.

The sword he studied there was nothing like the ponderous steel weapons the Militia carried, and certainly nothing like the wide heavy blades used in High Magick. The reed-blade was an elegant thing, smaller than his little finger at its base and tapering to a blunt, squared-off point. It was used to touch one's opponent, elegantly, and in the proper style. Talismans worn by each of the combatants ensured that the blades could not go awry, and accidentally strike outside the permitted target zones.

It was still incredibly hard to score according to Master Kalos' exacting specifications, and at the end of each bell-and-a-half lesson, Cilarnen was as exhausted as if he'd spent the entire time running around the inside of the enormous hall, instead of standing nearly still attempting to hit a man with a length of metal he could balance on two fingers. But Master Kalos praised lavishly for each improvement, and told Cilarnen he could have made a fine swordsman, if he had not had the misfortune to be born a Mage.

A joke, of course, and Cilarnen had smiled dutifully. Master Kalos's odd sense of humor was well-known.

For one of the sennightly lessons he saw Master Kalos alone, for the other two, he was part of a class of about twenty other young Mageborn. Since the classes were grouped by skill, not age, Cilarnen soon found himself among not only some of his fellow students, but grouped with some older Mageborn as well. They treated Cilarnen with casual good-fellowship, as if he were one of them.

He found it an odd and interesting experience to be in a place where rank very nearly didn't matter.

It did, of course. Lord Volpiril's only son would be a fool to believe otherwise. Bur the illusion was comforting, and for a little while, he could pretend that he actually had people around him he could call "friend."

His dancing teacher was Lord Nendimos, a Mage who specialized not only in teaching dance, but in the history of dance, and the magic of dance, a series of lectures that one must be a Journeyman-Apprentice to sit for.

Lord Nendimos was a Journeyman-Undermage. He had been a Journeyman-Undermage since long before Cilarnen had been born, and would never rise higher in the ranks, though his power and his knowledge outstripped many of his betters, and if he could only have gained the sponsorship to do so, he could have passed a dozen of the qualifying tests with no difficulty whatever. Gaining such sponsorship might even have been possible, though difficult, for the same reason that Lord Nendimos was still a Journeyman after four decades.

Lord Nendimos liked women. He liked them as people. He enjoyed their company, their fellowship, and even claimed that some of them were his friends. He made no secret of it. When he was not putting the students of the Mage-College through their paces, he was dancing-master to half the Mage Houses of Armethalieh, and there he was welcomed by the Mage-born women with — if he was to be believed — as much warmth as if he was a family member.

His fellow-Mages regarded his eccentricity with dismay, and with resignation. But once they were satisfied that he would not pass on his peculiar tastes to their sons, they decided to tolerate his peculiarities. His family was old and well-connected. His brothers were perfectly normal — and highly-placed. His sisters were married into some of the best families.

And his talents were too valuable to lose.

The dances of Armethalieh were slow, stately . . . and very complicated. It took time to learn them well — even more so since it was not to be considered that Mageborn sons and Mageborn daughters should learn them together. That sort of foolishness could be left to the Tradesmen, the Nobles, the Laborers, and all the rest who lived lives of foolish self-indulgence.

Dancing practice was held in the auditorium at the northern end of the quadrangle. Students were grouped by age, not academic rank, and drilled, endlessly, in the set figures of Armethaliehan dance, taking the roles of the "sun" or the "moon" in turn.

Once a Student reached his fifteenth year, attendance was no longer mandatory, but Cilarnen had chosen to continue because he found the class interesting and even pleasurable. At this point, his class made up of the older students and Apprentices and even a few Tutors. He enjoyed the stately movement, like a slower form of swordplay, and Nendimos drilled this oldest class hardest of all, for having had years to master the steps, he told them, he now looked for perfection of form.

When the music played, and Cilarnen concentrated on mirroring his partner's moves and those of the dancers around him, his mind on nothing beyond the moment, sometimes he felt almost as if he were a sort of living wand, tracing through the glyphs of a spell. He'd said as much to Lord Nendimos one day after practice.

The old man had regarded him shrewdly. "I trust you will come to my lectures when you are old enough, Lord Cilarnen. I shall save a place for you."

But of all his teachers, Cilarnen's most important hours were spent with his private tutor in Magick. Master Tocsel had been his tutor in Magick since he had been a small child. The venerable Master Undermage knew everything there was to know about the practicalities of High Magick, from the simplest spell to the most abstruse conjuration. He had trained Cilarnen's father, and his grandfather; he was certainly not a kindly man, but if Cilarnen was truly making an effort, Tocsel was endlessly patient. His one concern was to see his pupil do well. His feelings had been quite hurt during that period of obsession with Amintia when Cilarnen had been unable to pay attention to his lessons, but to Cilarnen's intense relief, his renewed efforts had been rewarded with praise and encouragement, and Master Tocsel had been willing to forgive Cilarnen's dereliction, even when it seemed his own father would not.

"Mark my words, young Cilarnen," Tocsel said one day, as Cilarnen's lesson drew to a close. "You will soon be a mere Apprentice no longer. It is in my mind to recommend you for the tests for Entered Apprentice the next time the Board sits. No more blue robe for you!"

There were three ranks of Apprentice: Student Apprentice (which Cilarnen had passed long ago), Apprentice, and Entered Apprentice. Of the three, only the last was entitled to wear the grey robe of Magecraft and cast spells for any purpose other than practice. Entered Apprentices still pursued their studies at the College, but they also worked elsewhere in the City, assisting Mages at their work.

"Thank you sir! I—" He nearly asked if Master Tocsel thought he was ready, and bit back the question. Master Tocsel would not have made the comment if he did not think Cilarnen was ready. "I only hope my lord father will be pleased," he said instead.

Tocsel made a rude noise, the privilege of age. "And why should he not be? You've come along splendidly. Not like the Arch-Mage's son. Bad blood there. Oh, everyone knew it, but Lycaelon wouldn't be told; once he set eyes on that ridiculous barbarian woman, nothing would do but what he marry her. And look what happened! Learn from his mistake, boy, and let your father pick your bride when the time comes. Emotion should never play a part in marriage."

A bride! Cilarnen winced inwardly, though he was careful to let nothing of his feelings show on his face. He hoped he never saw another woman until he was as old as Master Tocsel!

When the Board sat, he passed its tests easily, and advanced in rank. Lord Volpiril seemed to think it was no more than the consideration that House Volpiril deserved and was not due to any effort on Cilarnen's part. This hurt, but Cilarnen was careful not to show it; the traditional celebration was held — House Volpiril's consequence demanded no less — but to Cilarnen's mind, the festivities seemed rather perfunctory, somehow, and he knew for a fact that every aspect of the event had been handled by Volpiril's secretary. Including the gift presented to him in Volpiril's name: a fine silver-and-ebony wand-case. Once he would have cherished such an item, thinking it had come from his father. Once. Now he could barely bear to look at it, though of course he had said everything that was proper at the time. Whatever his private feelings, he would do nothing to diminish the consequence of House Volpiril in the world. All this would someday be his, after all.

As an Entered Apprentice, in grey robe and soft cap (to distinguish him plainly from Journeymen, who also wore grey robes, but hooded ones), Cilarnen saw far more of the City than he ever had before. He worked with — or more precisely, for — Mages in every aspect of their tending of the City, reporting directly to the Master of Apprentices each time a Mage released him to be set to a new task.

Cilarnen also began to make friends among his fellow Entered Apprentices, knowing that these would be his colleagues and confederates for the rest of a life spent in service to the City, and friendships formed now would be the foundations for alliances later. Perhaps friend was not the right word; emotion didn't enter into the choices he made for his associates. Allies would be more accurate. And the associations felt hollow. Unsatisfying as one of the puff-pastries that looked so delicious and were nothing more than a dusting of sugar over a thin, crust that fell to insubstantial bits at the first bite.

He could not name the day on which he realized that he would never again be readmitted to his father's favor, no matter how hard he worked and what honors he achieved, but surely it was a blessing sent by the Light, for at about this same time, rumors began filtering down from the highest levels of Mageborn society that Lord Volpiril had caused the High Council to repudiate the City's ancient contracts with the Home Farms, withdrawing the City's boundaries to the walls themselves.

At first Cilarnen gave the matter little thought — what did the farms have to do with the City, after all?

But soon he began to learn. No one paid any attention to an Apprentice. His seniors spoke freely in front of him. And Cilarnen learned more than he wished to know.

"The Light-forgotten fool will be the ruin of us all. Wand."

Cilarnen lifted the instrument from the insulating cloth and placed it carefully into Juvalira's hand. The Senior Journeyman began tracing the complicated pattern of a preservation spell in the air as his assistant — another Journeyman; Cilarnen was far from being allowed to actually assist in a Casting as yet — drew a complimentary pattern on the stone floor of the warehouse with a sword. Both patterns flared and settled.

They were working in one of the cereals warehouses near the Market District. The building's spells needed to be constantly-reinforced, for there were a great many of them — not only spells against vermin of all kinds, but spells against fire, damp and leaks. Not only were there spells upon the building itself, but there were also a host of spells upon the building's contents — a separate matter, each needing to be worked separately, and in a precise order. Spells against spoilage, against rot, and against the destruction of any of the myriad containers of the grain, for since it had all been brought from the farms or from Selken ships, it came stored in sacks and barrels, some as milled flour, some as whole grains.

This was Cilarnen's first visit to this particular warehouse, but even he could see that it was emptier than it ought to be. There were empty spaces upon the shelves, stacks of barrels that weren't quite even, a sense of emptiness that made him faintly uneasy, though he could not have said why he felt this way.

He'd carried in all the equipment and laid it out as the two Mages walked around their work area — all the warehouse personnel had been given the day off, of course, so that no one would see the Mages at their work — and their conversation had only confirmed his uneasiness. The warehouse was far emptier than it ought to be.

Then they had begun their first casting — a long elaborate process, involving waiting periods as each layer of the spell settled into place, and Cilarnen had been too busy to think much.

"More incense, boy," Thekinalo said curtly.

Cilarnen hurried to dip several carefully-measured spoonfuls of powder onto the glowing coals, chanting the appropriate spell under his breath.

"It's hardly a surprise," Thekinalo said, continuing the conversation. "They see a chance for profit now that they are free, and so our warehouses empty, and the farmers' pockets fill with Golden Suns. And the price of a baker's loaf has doubled in the last moonturn, may the Light defend us."

"From Lord Volpiril and his policies," Juvalira agreed, raising his wand again. "And from the commons, should they ever discover the reason bread is so dear."

His partner simply laughed, and lowered the sword to the floor once more.

From overheard conversations like that one, and many others, and shared gossip among his peers — it was initially difficult to get them to share what they knew with Lord Volpiril's son, but there Mage Hendassar's public humiliation of him worked to his advantage. With a little effort and a show of dissafection; it was not difficult to imply a certain distance between himself and his father. Before long, Cilarnen soon knew what "everyone" knew about Lord Volpiril.

And none of it was good.

"Someone must do something," young Lord Gillian said earnestly.

At the end of their daily duties, many of the Apprentices gathered at a tea-house at the edge of the College. The Golden Bells sold nothing stronger than kaffeyeh, teas, and fruit juice, of course, but it was a place where Apprentices and the younger Journeymen could gather together and socialize, free of the constraints of their elders. And providing their elders approved, of course.

Cilarnen shook his head minutely, saying nothing. Gillian was a fool. His rash speech would get him into trouble someday — and soon, no matter that his grandfather sat on the High Council.

"What do you suggest?" Flohan asked, with a touch of sarcasm. "Do we petition the High Council? My cousin says that half the farmers in the Valley are already doing that. The Council won't change its mind and take them back."

"Its tiny mind," Gillian said, and there was laughter from the young men gathered around the table — some genuine, some merely nervous.

Only two didn't join in the general amusement. Cilarnen, and a young Journeyman named Raellan.

Raellan had been coming to the Golden Bells for several sennights now. He was a quiet man, having little to say, but when he did speak, it was always sensible and to the point.

"I think that if someone wanted to change the Council's mind about its policies," Raellan said now, looking straight at Cilarnen, "he would have to be very brave, and very dedicated to the good of the City."

"This is getting too deep for me," another Entered Apprentice named Viance said hastily. "Let us talk of pleasant things. Who has tried the Phastan Silvertip that has just come in?"

The talk quickly turned to tea, and the moment passed.

Chired Anigrel — known in the Golden Bells, and in a few other select establishments in the City as Master Raellan — left the teashop a few chimes later, well pleased with the evening's work.

Few would recognize his face there and elsewhere, and to baffle those who might, the smallest and most subtle Cantrip of Misdirection cast over his features before he left his rooms ensured that he would not be recognized.

If Lord Lycaelon needed a reason to dispense with Volpiril's services, Anigrel would give him one.

As well as the opportunity to rid himself of all other Mages who might prove to be — inconvenient.