The Divided Knight - Chapter Twenty-One

“You're certain that's what she meant?” Wilem asked. “That you're supposed to rebuild the Conclave?”

They'd been in Wilem's study for hours, discussing Garrold's revelation about what he was and what it meant for the future of the kingdom. Just as Garrold had suspected, Wilem hadn't been surprised at all when Garrold told him he was a mage. He had been relieved, however, as he – just like Therese – had known for years about the potential Garrold held within himself, and had lately begun to worry if that potential would ever get a chance to be realized. Over the course of their discussion, Wilem had tested Garrold a number of times, wanting to see just how much he could do, and Garrold had surprised himself by succeeding every time. How could he do so much when he didn't even know any spells? I don't know any, but, apparently, I can create them, he mused, thinking again about Therese.

“What else could she have meant?” Garrold asked.

“What do you know about the Conclave, Garrold? About how it functioned? About what rules it was governed by?”

Until the night before, Garrold had been frightened of mages and the powers they wielded, which, he now realized, made his knowledge of them embarrassingly poor. The Conclave had been a good thing, though, hadn't it? If it hadn't been, why had Atraxos the Black gone to so much trouble to see that it was destroyed? “I don't know very much about it, at all, I'm afraid,” Garrold said.

“As I'm sure you remember from your history lessons, the Conclave was what took the place of the Council of Mages when the Torvaran Empire fell apart during the last Mage War. Though it was meant to take the place of what had come before it, it was only ever a pale echo of what it replaced, its members little more than hermits who were afraid of their own potential. The mages of the Conclave taught that magic must be controlled at all costs, and that no one outside of themselves could ever be allowed to wield more than a trifling amount of Life Magic. Anyone outside of the Conclave who was found to have a talent for Arcane Magic was to be inducted into the Conclave's ranks, and, if they refused to join, they were hunted down and executed. Wild mages were an unacceptable danger – after all, who else could possibly become a Necromancer aside from a wild mage who hadn't been properly trained? – and Arcane Magic could only be used with the buffer of spoken spells. So, I ask you, again, Brother. Are you certain Therese meant that you are supposed to rebuild the Conclave?”

Garrold was silent for a time. “I think I'm beginning to understand why you monks and clerics always had such a hard time getting along with the mages,” he said at last. “They were afraid of you because you always did more than what they allowed, and, when their threats against you didn't stop you, they grew envious.” Garrold laughed and shook his head. “And I always thought the mages were supposed to be good guys.”

“And yet you feared them,” Wilem said.

“I did,” Garrold said. “The odd thing is, now that I think about it, I never really understood why I feared them. They never did anything to make me afraid.”

“I think maybe they did.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the last five hundred years, every living mage in the kingdom has been a member of the Conclave. As members of the Conclave, they were tasked with finding wild mages, and were constantly on the lookout for them. Garrold, you, by definition, are a wild mage, and I think it likely that your talents began to express themselves much earlier than they do with most others. I think your fear of mages and magic was an inward expression of one of the first spells you ever cast – a spell to protect yourself from the probing of anyone looking specifically for someone like you.”

Garrold lifted the mug that sat on the small table next to his chair, taking a sip of the brandy that, when his talk with Wilem had begun, had been warm. “You might be right, Brother,” he said. “You just might be.” He looked at his brother. “So, what do we do, now?”

Wilem smiled. “Rebuild, of course. But not the Conclave. No, what we need to rebuild – what you need to rebuild – is the Council of Mages. And one of the most important things a rebuilt Council of Mages needs is a Magister to lead it.”

Garrold raised his eyebrows. “A Magister? You want me to declare myself a Magister?”

“Not a Magister, Garrold. The Magister. There was always ever only one.”

“And he didn't just lead the Council,” Garrold said, his voice quiet. “He lead the whole of the Empire.”

“Indeed.”

“Gods Above, you're serious, aren't you, Wilem?”

“I am, but I leave the choice up to you, Brother. This isn't something I can force you to do.”

“What if I prove not to be strong enough to be Magister? We don't even know what in Hel's name I'm capable of, yet, save for the few tests you've thrown at me.”

“Not every Magister was strong, Garrold. Some, in fact, were little stronger than clerics. In your case, though, I think that's something we don't need to worry about. My question for you, Brother, is are you prepared to lead? You've been a good Duke – better, in some ways, than even Father was – but can you translate being a good Duke into being the face of an entire nation?”

Garrold said nothing for a long time. For fifteen years, he'd been hearing how good of a Duke he was, and he'd even seen that sentiment reflected in the faces of the other nobles who occasionally attended court at Valewind. Those other nobles, some of whom had come from duchies and baronies scattered throughout the kingdom, had respected him, and more than just what was expected of them for the sake of keeping up appearances. Would they follow him if he declared himself Magister? And what was a Magister without a Council of Mages? A tyrant no better than Atraxos the Black.

“I need mages to fill my Council if I'm going to do what you suggest, Wilem,” Garrold said.

“Which is why my fellow monks are already searching for them,” Wilem said, smiling and taking a sip of his own brandy. “I'll make sure to let them know that they are to tell those whom they find that there is nothing to fear by flocking to your banner.”

Garrold laughed. “My banner. Gods Above, I must be insane for even considering this.”

Wilem grinned. “Being insane helps if you're going to try to save the world.” He suddenly frowned, the grin vanishing as quickly as it appeared. “Something's wrong.”

Garrold stood, turning toward the door. “I sense it, too.” He focused on the feeling, stretching his new senses out toward it. An image of a burning village filled his mind, its people fleeing before the blood-stained blades of mounted soldiers. The soldiers were members of the King's Guard, and at their head was a hulking, pale creature wearing black armor emblazoned with a crimson serpent. “So, Lyrian strikes.”

“They used the same magic that allows the couriers to get here so fast,” Wilem said. “We were fools not to expect it.”

Garrold looked at him. “What do we do?”

Wilem stood. “Follow me. I have an idea.”

They left the study, Garrold's personal guards – Stevan and Robert – falling in behind them as soon as they entered the hallway beyond.