LITMIR.BIZ

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as well. The Third Orëska had been a noble concept; now she and Arkoniel were faced with finding out whether or not their wizards could actually work together.

      Tamír had kept her word and insisted from the start that Iya’s wizards be made welcome in Illardi’s house, despite the grumbling from some of the lords and generals. In return, they found ways to make themselves useful, making small useful charms like firechips and roof wards. Iya, Saruel, and Dylias all knew a bit of healing and helped where they could, with the drysians’ blessings.

      Arkoniel’s own little group of wizards had arrived at the end of Lithion. Iya had been touched by the joy with which he’d greeted them. He’d truly missed them, especially a green-eyed boy of nine named Wythnir, whom he’d taken as his first pupil. He was a frail little thing, and shy, but Iya sensed the strong potential in him. She exchanged an approving look with Arkoniel, who was positively beaming.

      Busy as Tamír was, she ordered a special banquet for them in her chambers with the other wizards and Companions that night, and Arkoniel proudly presented them.

      The old ones, Lyan, Vornus, Iya’s friend Cerana, and a gruff, scowling, common-looking fellow named Kaulin were the first to bow to Tamír with their hands to their hearts.

      “You are the queen that was foreseen, indeed,” Lyan said, speaking for them all. “By our hands, hearts, and eyes, we will gladly serve you, and Skala.”

      The younger ones came forward next, a noble-looking pair in tattered finery, named Melissandra and Lord Malkanus, and a plain young fellow named Hain. He was about Arkoniel’s age and had the same aura of banked power about him.

      The children came forward last, and Iya saw Tamír’s eyes light up as they were presented. Ethni was close to Tamír’s age, with only the faintest trace of magic about her. The twin girls, Ylina and Rala, weren’t much stronger, nor was little Danil. Wythnir shone among them like a jewel in a handful of river stones. This was the sort of child Iya had imagined, all those years ago when they first spoke of gathering wizards, but Arkoniel seemed delighted with all of them, regardless of their ability.

      “Welcome, all of you,” said Tamír. “Arkoniel has told me good things about you, and your studies. I’m glad to see you here.”

      “I understand you spent some time at our old home,” Ki added. He shot Arkoniel a grin. “I hope you didn’t find it too dreary there?”

      “Oh no!” Rala said at once. “Cook makes the best cakes and mince tarts.”

      Ki pulled a comical stricken face. “You’re right. Now I’m homesick.”

      The children laughed at that, and it set the tone for the evening. Most of the older wizards seemed quite fond of the children and had them demonstrate their little tricks for the other guests after supper. It was mostly colored lights and bird calling, but Wythnir made a dish of hazelnuts fly about the room like a swarm of bees.

      Iya’s wizards were quick to welcome the newcomers, too, and she and Arkoniel exchanged a happy look. Thirty-three wizards, counting themselves, plus a handful of newcomers who’d straggled in; it was a good start.

      After they had the children settled in their new rooms, Arkoniel walked with her on the walls.

      “Can you imagine it?” he’d said to her, eyes shining. “The children have made such tremendous progress, with only a few minor wizards for teachers. Think what they’ll learn from these powerful ones you’ve gathered! Oh, some of them don’t have the talent to be more than healers or charm makers, I know, but a few may grow to be great.”

      “Especially that boy you’ve taken on, eh?”

      Arkoniel’s face glowed with affection and pride. “Yes, Wythnir will be great.”

      Iya said nothing, recalling how she’d thought the same of all her early pupils. Wythnir was certainly brighter than the others, but she knew from long experience that disappointment was as likely as success with one so young, even those who seemed promising.

      More important than any single apprentice or wizard was the memory of the vision she’d had all those years ago: Arkoniel an old, wise man in a great house of wizards, with a different child by his side. She’d passed the vision on to him, and she sensed it taking hold ever more strongly, now that he’d had a small taste of success.

      And Arkoniel loved children. That had come as something of a surprise to Iya, who had no use at all for ordinary ones, and rarely considered wizard-born as anything more than potential apprentices. She’d loved her own students, as much as she was capable of loving anyone, but knowing that each one would leave her and go their own way eventually, it didn’t do to get overly attached. Perhaps Arkoniel would come to understand that in time, but for now, he was seeing that shining palace, full of life and learning. It showed in his eyes, and Iya knew better than to stand in the way of Illior’s will. Arkoniel was fated for a different path than the one she and her predecessors had trodden.

      He still carried the cursed bowl, too, and guarded it well. Perhaps he was fated to find a safe place for it. That was on the knees of the gods, too. Iya had no regrets, and new challenges to face.

      Dylias and the Ero wizards had some experience at unity, having banded together to protect themselves from the Harriers. Iya would have been happy to leave the demands of leadership to him, but everyone seemed determined to defer to her.

      “The Oracle gave the vision to you,” Arkoniel laughingly reminded her when she grumbled in the days that followed. It seemed someone was always coming to her with some question of magic, and there were always children underfoot. “You are Tamír’s protector. Naturally they look to you.”

      “Protector, eh?” Iya muttered. “She still hardly speaks to me.”

      “She’s better with me now, but there’s still a wariness there. Do you think she’s guessed at the truth?”

      “No, and we must put her off as long as we can, Arkoniel. She cannot have any distractions now and she still needs us. Perhaps she’ll never ask. It would be better so.”

      With Dylias’ help, they kept watch as best they could across the sea toward Plenimar. Others stayed near Tamír by turns, ready to protect her from any threat. This had to be done discreetly, with so many of Tamír’s new allies openly distrustful of their kind.

      Iya was equally distrustful of many of them, these nobles and warriors. Eyoli was recovered from his wounds and had already proven his worth. The young mind-clouder could walk into any encampment and move about freely, virtually unnoticed, listening and watching. Coupled with Arkoniel’s strange new blood spell and Tharin’s long memory for loyalties and intrigues, Iya judged Tamír to be as well guarded as could be managed.

      She also found a sound ally in the Oracle’s high priest, Imonus. The man had stayed on all this time and showed no signs of leaving. He and the two others who’d come with him, Lain and Porteon, spent their days tending the makeshift Temple of the Stele, as it was called now. People came every day to see it, and to hear from the high priest’s own lips that their new queen was indeed Illior’s chosen one.

      Imonus had gathered the surviving Illioran priests from Ero and counseled them to set up makeshift temples in the camps. He and his own priests established the largest of these, setting up the golden stele and offering braziers under a canopy in the courtyard of Illardi’s estate, just inside the gates. Anyone coming to see Tamír had to pass it and be reminded by the prophecy of her right to rule.

      Imonus spoke with the authority of the Lightbearer, and the devout believed. They left small offerings of flowers and coins in the baskets at the foot of the great tablet and touched it for luck. Destitute as most of them were, people nonetheless found food to bring to the priests, placing wizened apples and chunks of bread in the covered baskets. Then they cast their wax votives and feathers onto the ornate bronze braziers, rescued from some temple in Ero. These burned night and day, filling the air with the scent of the Illiorans’ pungent incense and the acrid undertone of burned feathers. Imonus and his brethren were always there, tending the fires, bestowing blessings,

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