Chapter 3: Telianthir

There are many like it on the more detailed maps, such as the very excellent ones issued to general officers of the imperial guard. A dot conjoined with a name, a place of habitation outside the mainstream of life, that none a score of leagues away could name or feel the lack thereof. Tellianthir was a town rather than a village or hamlet, near three thousand inhabitants nestled in the folds of mount Tellath, once a magnet for miners and seekers of adventure. But the stony tunnels now lay barren of ore, glittering treasure and hostile inhabitants alike, and all that remained of those days of blood, glory and cold sweat is the occasional trading party venturing from beneath or going into the depths, seeking wealth through the means of a long and perilous journey amidst the strange beings that live below and above - as it is, in the end, entirely a matter of perspective.

Once a rowdy place of taverns, cat houses and peddlers of supplies, it is now a more sedate place by far. Most mining towns whose luck has run out, the Lords of Earth having chosen to withhold their bounty, become ghostlike, only a desperate few running roachlike through dusty streets abandoned by the sane and those who are not destitute of hope and means, gleaning from the trash heaps of glitter until they choke on the resulting offal or fall to predators or disease. A lucky few amongst the towns find a different mode of existence, if a strong local presence managed to invest the newfound wealth in something different, or merely attractive. Gambling towns, trade centers, outfitters for the hunt, the myriad ways of survival have all been practiced. Tellianthir, however, is different, holding a secret close to its bosom, a shy old maiden with a very sharp knitting needle to discourage the curious. For the town was a place of power, and visitors were not welcome.

This was not power of nature, where a find of vithril rock or a place where femtanin shoots flourished, bringing wealth unconceived, nor did it result from a magical font or a concentration of ley-lines, in the existence of which most learned sages cast doubt, for since the fall of the gods of magic in what the legends named 'the Days of Thunder', the natural balance had long since been disrupted by the greed of living beings for power, namely the ability to manipulate their surroundings and their fellows. Tellianthir was the place of crafters, simply thus, where the very best of them were gathered, quite willingly, and devoted their all to art, all their needs supplied with the customary grace in which the Aillard handled one and all. What did mere craftspeople have to do with power, you ask? A silly question, if you but reflect. These were not mere artisans, but the best that could be found, their work further enhanced by circles of magi focused through vithril crystals, the misnamed powerstones, which in truth held no power of their own, merely the ability to increase the purity and might of energy channeled through their greenish-white veins. One in six among the items of power in the realm, or perhaps one in a dozen, for many such were kept hidden, came from here. Not only men and women who made and shaped things resided here, but also the best enchanters from those wizards who owed allegiance to the ladies of Aillard, whose agents plucked those blessed with talent and the skill and will to use it from wherever they might reside, sponsoring them to the great schools or teaching them in private in Valeron, that great city they held inviolate. Tellianthir was one of the great secrets at the heart of power, defended very aggressively indeed.

A dazzling bolt of lightning leaped from an outstretched finger and struck viciously, probing and failing to penetrate the raised spell-shield, sparks of frustrated electricity dancing over the revealed outlines of a hemispherical field of magical force. Spikes of steels in their scores answered, and were deflected with a negligent wave of a tiny hand that did not quite manage to hide fatigue with nonchalance, perforating an innocent tree. Streams of coloured flame, flashes of sun bright light, lances of power and rains of acid, the swirling of shark-teeth, the howls of razor edged wind and the screech of pure power were overwhelmed momentarily by a shout that could only be produced by someone who had some practice in keeping bumbling recruits in line. "Children! Stop this at once!", the huge and menacing black skinned warrior yelled, a hint of desperation in his tone.

Needless to say, this bellow of admonition had not the slightest of effect on the mayhem, and Loric's attempt to interfere in a more direct fashion was blocked by a field of force, a standard precaution in the case of mage-duels, his nose nearly shattering on the barrier as he ran toward the girls. Uttering a nonceasing stream of curses in a tongue spoken more than a thousand leagues due south, he drew a gigantic flamberge, a sword more suited to one of the mythical giants than to a man, even if he lacked only five inches from seven feet. A two handed swipe, so casual that any observer would judge that the blade weighed no more than a feather, and the barrier was gone. Advancing with a dreadful lack of worry (or is it a worrisome lack of dread?) into the midst of burgeoning magical disaster, he sliced through the battle magics with skill and precision that showed experience and training, indications of a natural talent that few could equal and fewer surpass. The spells he ignored, spheres of concussive force and arrows of flame, bounced off blue-silver scale armor, doing no harm whatsoever.

"Explain," he crossed his arms and thundered at them, as the stream of spells slackened and halted, "or I'll use a little something Miralys gave me to block your powers off until you explain this to your mother. Elorie will not find this amusing!"

Standing to either side of him in the meadow, avoiding his fuming countenance, were two pairs of shamefaced twins, youngsters of fourteen and twelve respectively. Only an expert eye would note the differences between the pairs, as they shared coloration and features, raven black hair and spritely blue eyes against a pale vista of alabaster complexion, beautiful children on their way to adulthood. One pair was perhaps a couple of inches taller, their cheekbones a trifle more angular, their feminine attributes considerably better developed.

"Well... really," Ellemir squirmed in place, "we just wanted to see...", she bit her lip in a particularly fetching manner as an opponent interrupted rudely.

"See! Ha! They were baiting us, insulting us, told us we weren't better than apprentices, that we'd never pass...", the tirade halted abruptly as Fey blushed visibly, clamping her mouth shut.

"We just wanted to see if our defensive magics were good enough to withstand a full assault by lessers," Avaereene said haughtily, her chin lifted in a peremptory manner, aping mannerisms she'd seen all her life with a considerable degree of success.

Loric bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing, and clapped his hands loudly enough that the girls covered their ears in pain at the sonic assault, determined to prevent another explosion of Aillard tempers. Having dealt with their mother for more than a score of years now, the patterns of behaviour were quite familiar. Mentally cursing his worthy associate, who'd chickened out by insisting that the packbeasts and the camp had to be guarded, he prayed to Korkas the Battlemaster that the interminable journey end soon, and that he never have to deal with adolescent witches again.

"Enough! At least Kaylindra has sense enough not to offer excuses! There are no excuses for such behaviour. Valenta will deal with you soon, and she will not tolerate such stupidity. Your instructors will also be informed. Another problem, and you won't be able to lift a pebble magically. I cannot imagine why Miralys considered you ready to depart Valeron, nor how the addlepated idea that your mother might like to see you again crossed her mind. We are going back to camp, and the four of you will stand sentry tonight."

Ellemir took a single step forward, toward Loric and the camp, and whispered quite audibly, a wicked smile on her lips, "You mean you aren't going to spank us, uncle Loric?"

It was perhaps fortunate that blushes are quite invisible against ebon skin, and the warrior turned and took himself and the remnant tatters of his dignity back to camp, muttering imprecations against all beings divine, not forgetting to heap a respectable number of pejorative adjectives on his partner, Darrel.

Rubbing her aching neck, stretching to look up at the sky, her silky mane reaching down to her emerald sash, Valenta spared a moment for envy, wishing she had no need to rest or sleep, that fatigue and exertion meant nothing to her, as was the case with the child of prophecy. Shaking her head, she tossed the thought away, having no particular wish to pay the price. With the recent events and Allasra's reassignment, she was the supreme commander in charge of Tellianthir's defenses. To be fair, bonded foursome were in charge of the physical aspect of things, but the real barrier to invasion or attack were the immense magical wards that had been raised centuries ago and reinforced over the years by zealous guardians. Such as herself, she sighed, having just finished a complete inspection of the entire circumference, adding a number of nasty surprises and twists to the web with the paranoia of a professional. Have to log them properly, she reminded herself, covering a yawn with a raised palm, courtesy ingrained even when there was no one about to offend with the sight of her pink tongue.