like flies on dung. Their cities are ant hives, with thousands in residence.’
‘Our People, do they abide?’
‘Yes. But they have … fallen.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Regent Lord.
As if needing to emphasize his point, Laromendis moved to stand before the northernmost window, which provided a vista of the city outside. Tarendamar, Starhome, capital of the Clans of the Seven Stars, and for generations a monument to the majesty of the People. The Regent Lord came to stand beside the red-haired magician. Still untouched by the brutal war to the north, the city remained much as it had been since Undalyn had been a boy.
The Hall of the Regent’s Meeting was a short walk from the Regent’s palace, and this very hall, ancient and honoured, had been among Undalyn’s earliest memories. His father had ensured the next Regent Lord would understand the responsibilities of his heritage.
He knew this precinct well, as he had played in every alleyway and garden, swum in every pool and brook, climbed the holy trees to the outrage of the priestesses, and had come to love this city as if it were a living being; it was a living being, it was the heart of the Clans of the Seven Stars.
Built by magic and sweat, Tarendamar was the crown jewel of the People. Seven great trees formed a massive ring around the heart of the city, one mystic tree for each of the sacred stars in the heavens. Even in the harsh light of Andcardia’s sun, the deep shadows within their bowers glimmered with fey light.
It was from those seven trees, the ‘Seven Stars,’ as they were called, that the power of the taredhel was drawn. Each tree had been grown from a sapling carried from Home to this world, the first refuge of the taredhel, the ‘People of the Stars,’ as they called themselves.
They had fled their birth world, ages before, and found refuge on this dry, inhospitable world, with its small oceans and lakes, scorching hot save for in the middle of their short winter. This world had grudgingly yielded to the magic of the original Spellweavers, and the seven magic trees, carried from Home had been the anchor that had allowed them to survive. The survival of those saplings had been paid for with the very blood of the taredhel. If the soul of the Clans of the Seven Stars resided anywhere other than Andcardia, it was, and could only be, Home.
When the trees began to flourish, so did the taredhel, providing them with magic they called Home Magic. They had at first used it to bludgeon Andcardia into submission, then they had refined their magic, blending it with the natural harmonies, until a tune native to both the taredhel and this planet emerged. Over the following centuries, it had changed both the world and the elves.
Lush forests now hugged the mountainsides, still halted in the lowlands by blistering hot tablelands and vast deserts. Yet even they were slowly retreating as the Water Gatherers found ways to use the translocation magic to bring water from other worlds. During his lifetime, Undalyn had seen the sea level gradually rise and lakes expand. Once where his grandfather had hunted the great scaly lizards of the Rocky Flats, now an orchard of red fruit trees sheltered the melon vines, and streams ran through the heart of the flats all the way to the sea.
Undalyn was impatient for Laromendis to continue, but remained composed. He knew the Conjurer was trying to make a point. Finally the magic user spoke. ‘They have nothing like this.’
The Regent Lord inclined his head and said, ‘No cities?’
‘Only for the darkest among our kind, the lore speaks of them as the Forgotten.’
The Regent Lord glanced around. Only one servant waited near the door and he was out of earshot; what the Conjurer spoke of was approaching heresy. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘The …’
‘They are called moredhel on the homeworld.’
‘The dark people,’ nodded the Regent Lord. ‘They have a city?’
‘It is rumoured.’ He moved away from the window as he gathered his thoughts. ‘In the north, in slavish imitation of the Masters, they built a twin of the city of lore. It was called Armengar by the humans, and was destroyed according to the tales. Our people’s name for it I did not discover, but I’ve heard the story enough times to judge it has some truth to it.
‘I spent most of my time with the humans, for it is easier to guile them. The humans thrive. In some ways they are like us, but ultimately they are inferior, like the other short-lived races. And like the others, they breed like mice. They are everywhere. What they know of our People borders on myth and legend.
‘I travelled across one of their larger nations, learning the language as I travelled; fortunately, there are many nations and languages on this world, so someone who spoke oddly barely brought notice.
‘We know so little of these creatures, these humans … I found them fascinating.’
The Regent Lord looked at the magic user, his gaze narrowing. While the ancient Spell Weavers were venerated and honoured for their work transforming this harsh world, those like Laromendis and his brother Gulamendis were viewed with caution approaching fear. Anything connected with the dark arts, or indeed anything that those Conjurers and Demon Masters found ‘fascinating’ was likely to be viewed with suspicion. ‘Why?’ He asked.
‘There are many reasons, m’lord. But foremost is their magic. It is varied beyond calculation; they seize the power of the world and bend it to their will in so many ways, it staggers the mind.
‘There are those who use arts much like our own; I wondered at first if elves had been their first teachers, but there are others … called Greater Path magicians, who have no subtlety, no … grace in their craft, yet possess vast power. It is difficult to explain to one not given to magic.’
The Regent Lord nodded. By nature elves were at one with the natural magic of their race, but circumstances had forced the People to adapt, to change their ways. Now among the taredhel there were those, like the two brothers, who hungered for power. And there were those, like the Regent Lord, who had sacrificed any understanding of the arts so that they might bend their will instead to serving the People in other ways.
‘Tell me of the humans later,’ said the Leader of the Clans of the Seven Stars. ‘Tell me more of our people now. You said the … the Forgotten exist there?’
‘So it would seem,’ said the magic user. ‘Humans know so little about our kind, but I could piece together some understanding of how our brethren fare.
‘Humans call the Forgotten “The Brotherhood of the Dark Path”.’
The Regent Lord nodded. ‘An apt name if the secret lore is true …’ He hesitated, realizing he had inadvertently uttered a blasphemy.
‘There have been many debates among the Farseeing over whether the secret lore is literal or metaphor.’ With that simple remark, he let the Regent Lord know he understood the comment and would make no issue of it. Given the current situation among the People, any hint of disorder brought swift and harsh punishment; it was why his brother currently languished in a dark cell. Then again, Laromendis’s younger brother always had a tendency to speak first and think later; a bad trait in one who immersed himself in demon lore at a time when demons threatened to obliterate the People.
‘What did you learn of the Forgotten?’
‘Little, to the humans the Brotherhood is almost a myth, though I did encounter a traveller from Yabon, a city far to the north of a realm known as ‘the Kingdom,’ and he swore that he had once seen those … unspeakable beings.
‘The Forgotten war against our brethren,’ said the Conjurer, his tone betraying a hint of his anger and disgust. ‘I walked the land listening to gossip in taverns, buying drinks for sailors, speaking with priests and anyone else who might know ancient lore. In one place I found an abbey dedicated to a god, but their wards were two strong for my guise to endure, so I could not enter. But I encountered one of their members on the road and questioned him. He was a monk and his mind was disciplined, but eventually it yielded most of what I learned of their ancient lore, which I now