Nivenmage

Tyril Comes Home

The clouds broke, and a heavy rain battered the walls and the marble balconies of Pyriam. The three towers stood, ever vigilant, facing Herilum like stubborn guards. In the centre tower a guard just as stubborn as the stone around him shielded his face against the rain. His helmet had sleek blades that rose from the back of his head like a crown. He was Imrol, the sentinel of the Second Tower, but on that night he was not looking east. He was looking west, over the roof of the fortress behind him. Only two weeks before Nivenmage Crelin had been buried, and the pain still stung Imrol who had loved him dearly.

Imrol was waiting, like almost everyone in Pyriam, for the one was finally to return out of the west, the one who had slain Renegen. Lord Qugan had marshalled the entire force that Pyriam could send, and they had left more than a week before. Now word had come, telling of victory and the death of the traitor, Merdeliam. Tyril Brenilae and her Fierim companion would finally come back, but the rain was heavy and Imrol could see very little.

Then Imrol's keen eyes caught a light on the crest of one the hills, and then another. They were lanterns, held by soldiers, Neveans and Daghym alike. Imrol's voice caught in his throat, but his feet took him to the rear of the platform where an ornate horn was set, facing Pyriam where it slept. His hands, trembled, perhaps from cold, but he gripped the horn tightly and blew. A deep noise rumbled down and echoed within the giant courtyard, shaking the very walls of the smaller buildings. Imrol blew until his lungs burned, and by then the rolling hills of Pyriam where flooded by lantern light.

By the weak light the standards of Pyriam and Leogorath could be seen, and even the standard of Galyn here and there. Indeed the Regent Hedrel himself had come, riding beside the King Soc-Alar in triumph. Tyril and Nedann rode behind them with Velu and the Prince, now grinning broadly as a horde of beings of all races stormed out of Pyriam to greet them. Then even the roar of the rain was outmatched, and they were borne inside.

Pyriam felt strangely unfamiliar to Tyril; the high towers looked ominous rather than friendly as if she was a stranger now. In the faint light, dimmed by the hard rain, a lantern guided them to the central stairs. Then Tyril found her way up, and the crowd started falling away as she ascended until she entered the Nivenmage's chamber alone. The room hadn't changed and yet, without Crelin, it felt different.

Qugan would become Nivenmage but he still wore the robes of the Circle, and Crelin's throne still stood bare. Instead, Qugan paced back and forth until he saw Tyril coming in.

"Tyril." He said. "Welcome back."

Tyril just smiled.

"You've changed, Tyril." Qugan said. "Not so talkative anymore, don't you have questions?"

She hesitated, but only one question occurred to her and she didn't care to know anything else, her curiosity had been stifled. She had changed, Qugan was right, she had become more powerful. Too powerful.

"How did I do it?" She asked. "I brought my mind here, I spoke to you. How?"

"You've attained a greater sensitivity to the Fabric. Some Neveans have natural instincts for it. You let your mind wander along the Fabric, and it wandered far indeed."

"Is that it?"

"I think so."

"Then why now, why did it happen so suddenly?"

"You fought a great battle, you travelled far."

"Does that matter?"

"I think so. You did more in a short span of time than most mages; I think you opened your mind. Your mind has an amazing lust for exploration, Tyril, you've always been curious, eager to learn, eager to become stronger."