Songs of the Dying Earth

Alfaro’s tower was nowhere so grand as the palaces of the elder magicians of Ascolais. But it was inexpensive. It had been abandoned when he found it. He hoped to complete renovations within the year.

His salon on the third level doubled as his library. A library bereft of even one copy of Lutung Kasarung’s masterwork, The Book of Changes. He took down several volumes uniformly bound in port wine leather, each fourteen inches tall and twenty-two wide, with gold embossing on faces and spines.

Cheap reproductions.

All Alfaro’s books, saving a few acquired under questionable circumstance, were reproductions created in sandestin sweat shops far to the east. Those he chose tonight were collections of artwork, volumes I through IV and VI, of the fourteen volume set, Famous Illustrations of Modern Aeons. Six volumes were all Alfaro could afford, so far. Volume V never arrived.

He finished a quick search of volumes I and IV before Tihomir brought the vovoyeur. “Are the experiments proceeding correctly?”

“All is perfection. Though the miniscules are asking for more salt.”

“They’re robbers.” Literally, actually. There had been a noticeable decline in the number of wayfarers and highwaymen since Alfaro’s advent in Ascolais. He did not boast about it. He doubted that anyone had noticed. “Give them another dram. In the morning.”

“They’re also asking for brandy.”

“As am I. Do we have any? If so, bring a bottle with the meal.”

Tihomir went. Morag lost himself in illustrations.

The one that fickle recollection insisted existed was in the last place he looked, the final illustration in Volume III.

“I thought so. It would be identical if the sun were behind me. And aeons younger.”

He warmed the vovoyeur.

Strokes with a wooden spoon did not spark a response. More vigorous application of an iron ladle enjoyed no more success. Alfaro found himself tempted to suspect that he was being ignored.

Perhaps the Preceptor was too engrossed in his pleasures to respond.

Irked, Alfaro selected a silver tuning fork. He struck the face of the far-seeing device a half dozen times while declaiming, “The Lady of the Gently Floating Shadows makes way for the Great Lady of the Night.”

The surface of the vovoyeur brightened. A shape appeared. It might have been the face of a normally cheerful but timeworn man. Alfaro could not improve the clarity of his fourth-hand device. “Speak, Morag.” Uncharacteristically brusque.

“See this illustration.” Morag held the plate from Famous Illustrations to the vovoyeur. “Do you know this place?”

“I know it. To the point, Morag.”

“I saw it this evening while enjoying an aerial jaunt above the Scaum.”

“Not possible. That place was destroyed aeons ago.”

“Even so, I spied it in a place where nothing stands. Where no one goes because of the haunts.”

Silence stretched. Then the vovoyeur whispered, “It might be best to discuss this face to face. Tomorrow. I will instruct my staff to permit the approach of your whirlaway, so long as it remains visible.”

“I shall follow your instructions precisely, Preceptor.” Stated while reflecting that his vision had been a stroke of good fortune.

There were reasons the Ildefonses of these fading times persisted.

He examined the plate he had shown the Preceptor. There was no accompanying text, just a word: Moadel.

Alfaro searched his meager library for references to Moadel. He found none.

2

Alfaro dismounted from his whirlaway, bowed to Ildefonse while noting that his conveyance was neither the first nor even the tenth to grace the broad lawn at Boumergarth. He was surprised to be greeted by the Preceptor himself, but more surprised to find that he had been preceded by so many beings of peculiar aspect, magicians of Almery and Ascolais, all. Panderleou, evidently having arrived only moments ago, was haranguing Barbanikos and Ao of the Opals about his latest acquisition, a tattered copy of The Day of the Cauldrons. “Hear this from the second chapter. ‘So they killed a thief and gave the best parts to Valmur, to hasten him on his way.’”

Others present included Herark the Harbinger, Vermoulian the Dreamwalker, Darvilk the Miianther, wearing the inevitable black domino, Gilgad, as always in red, Perdustin, Byzant the Necrope, and Haze of Wheary Water with a new green pelt and fresh willow leaves where others boasted hair. There were others, the quieter ones, and Mune the Mage made his entrance while Alfaro still silently called the roll. Mune the Mage preceded the foppish Rhialto the Marvellous by moments, and Zahoulik-Khuntze was scarcely a step behind the odious Rhialto.

These constituted the bulk of the magicians of Almery and Ascolais. Alfaro felt the oppressive weight of many gazes. He had not tried hard to win friends. Nor had felt any need. Till now, perhaps.