Nivenmage

A Call to Aid

It was a cold morning in a cold month when a young Nevean woke up once more only to thoughts of distressing circumstances. These had plagued her every morning of her life and no longer seemed to have quite the same effect they used to. As she made her preparations for the day, the harsh experiences of her past showed in everything she did. Her mind no longer lingered on unanswered questions or hope for an end to the war. She had the stance of someone who had been at war for a long time, and in this way she represented everything about the current state of the realm she lived in.

She walked to an arched window to see a weak sun peek wearily over the dark mountains in the east, the Ath-Daomold of Herilum. She shuddered to look upon that place, even with the silhouettes of three towers between her and Herilum. These towers looked boldly east and even though the morning sun blinded her to look at them she knew there were many watchful eyes in those towers.

As Tyril Brenilae walked through the long passageways of the fortress she didn't stop to admire the intricate patterns of shadow the light cast as it lanced through the many windows. She didn't even realise that the ones who had designed the hallways had lived in a more peaceful time, or notice once more the peculiar combination of extravagantly beautiful and rigidly productive buildings in the great city. She simply walked unhindered by musings.

The fortress stood as a glorious landmark for the land of Pyriam, surrounded by oddly unimpressive little flat-roofed buildings, and looked out of place with almost all of its surroundings. The great structure itself had the shape of an arc. In earlier days the hollow created by this arc was filled by a beautiful garden, but when the city was forced to defend itself the garden was used for military buildings: barracks and training fields. These were protected by three giant battle towers that stood at the mouth of the arc.

Far above the barracks below, many of the upper levels of the fortress had balconies and doorways facing inward, and between many of these doorways high wooden bridges had been spun, held aloft by shining cords.  The high-bridges crisscrossed through the air of the courtyard, and were constantly  in use.  Nevean mages and soldiers, and servants and aides, all hurried along them throughout the day as the business of war was conducted.

Tyril walked across a suspended platform to connect to the largest of the high-bridges, a broad path that led slightly upwards towards the centre of the highest level.  Many other bridges branched from this path, but Tyril ignored then and headed straight for the large and ornate oak doors at the top.  The chambers of the Nivenmage.  Her jaw clenched involuntarily, as it always did when she stood before those doors.  She paused only briefly, then she strode on and nodded to the guard that was waiting.

The door opened without a sound and revealed a room with a pervasive sense of luxury. The roof was high and supported by golden beams, intricately carved to have the appearance of ancient branches that snaked across the ceiling. At the far end of the room, between two pillars that were carved to look like massive trees, stood a statue of the goddess Nevenym.  Mother of the Neveans. As Tyril walked in, the figure of the goddess of her people confronted her and she felt immediately smaller under the statue's gaze.

In front of the statue stood a beautiful throne of marble, adorned with silver cushions. On it sat Crelin, the Nivenmage of Pyriam: an old man clad in a long robe with a thin golden circlet mounted on his forehead. The circlet was barely visible under his long grey hair but it represented his position, his power. Seeing her, he beckoned her in, signalling for the man who stood beside him to leave.

The man passed Tyril as he left, and Tyril saw from the crest on his robe that he was a mage of the Circle of Pyriam.  She frowned; she didn't know him.  Had the Circle already chosen? They usually took much longer, and this man was so young.  With only eleven members to represent the strength of Pyriam, surely they could have chosen someone older? As he passed her in the door he gave her only the briefest of glances, disregarding her so quickly that she assumed he had to be of high nobility.