To Light a Candle

by Mercedes Lackey

  Cilarnen raised his hand, summoning the power of the High Magick.

  And the Demon burst into flame.

  Burn! Cilarnen commanded, putting all his will into the demand, all his anger, all his fear. When he felt himself falter, he merely had to allow himself to see the dead and the dying scattered about the Square, and his fury welled up in him again. Never mind that a Mage was supposed to conduct all spell-casting in sublime detachment from everything and everyone; this rage gave him power he didn’t even know he had.

  He did not stop—a candle could not will itself to extinguish, but the Demon could—but willed Fire again and again—

  —until, suddenly, unfamiliar weakness drove him to his knees.

  And the Demon, its body charred and blackened, dropped from the sky.

  WIRANCE felt the tingle of unfamiliar magic, and suddenly the Demon burst into flames.

  For a moment he thought it was a trick, a trap, but then the Demon roared with pain, flailing wildly in the air as it sought to extinguish the flames that raced over its body.

  Wirance glanced toward the edge of the square, following the line of magic stretched across the sky, and saw a slender human youth pointing his hand at the Demon, his whole body rigid with concentration and fury.

  I don’t know what you’re doing, boy, but keep it up!

  Kardus hurried to Wirance’s side, forcing his way through the press of warriors. In his hands he held a thin length of shining white cord.

  “I think—” the Centaur Wildmage began.

  “Pray,” Wirance said grimly, and readied his spell.

  The Demon had stopped fighting now, and hung in the sky, a burning ember, its wings skeletal, its body ash and bones. But the moment the strange burning spell was lifted, it would begin to heal, and in moments it would be whole—and more savage than before.

  Wirance waited for the instant the light of the burning spell flickered out, then struck with his own. This time it held: the Demon’s body fell to the ground, surrounded by a white glow of Restraint.

  “Quickly!” Wirance shouted, his voice harsh. “I cannot hold this spell for long!”

  Kardus lunged forward, the rope of unicorn hair in his hands. He fell to his knees, looping it about the Demon’s neck, and jerked it tight. The seared Demonflesh crackled as the unicorn hair burned through it, shearing through the neck and windpipe, and with a crack the head rolled free.

  A moment later, the whole body dissolved into ash, and began to swirl away in the water.

  Silence.

  A terrible, heavy silence.

  “Is it dead?” someone asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” Kardus said, lunging awkwardly to his feet. “The Demon is dead.”

  Then the moaning, the weeping, the agonized cries for help began.

  Wirance looked around. The village square resembled nothing so much as a slaughtering pen. In the cold, steam rose from the shattered bodies of the living and the cooling bodies of the dead, and the air was filled with smoke. He looked at Kardus. “We both have much work to do here. But we had best go find the boy first.”

  “His name is Cilarnen,” Kardus said. “He is my Task.”

  Fifteen

  At the Siege of Stonehearth

  Cilarnen had not gone far. He was too weak to stand, but he had crawled back around the corner of the building and was curled up against it, trying to shut out the sobbing and groans of the wounded. His eyes streamed tears. But he was not weeping. No, not he. Surely.

  “Cilarnen,” Wirance said, squatting down beside him, “are you hurt?”

  “It thought I was Kellen, you see,” Cilarnen explained—reasonably, he thought “And then it realized I wasn’t So it killed everybody. It tried to kill me first, but I still had my Gift. Lord Anigrel was supposed to take it, but he didn’t. That was wrong of him, wasn’t it? They’re supposed to take your Gift when they Banish you.”

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kardus said gently. “We know who Kellen Wildmage is. Kellen came from Armethalieh. Did you come from Armethalieh too?”

  “Yes,” Cilarnen said, sitting back and looking up at the two Wildmages. “I’m a Mage of Armethalieh. I was, anyway. An Entered Apprentice.”

  “And you used your Armethaliehan magic on the Demon?” Wirance asked.

  “I used Fire,” Cilarnen said, his voice thick with exhaustion, and with what was certainly not weeping. It was hard to form words. But now—now his vision was clearing at last, and—he was tired. So tired. He couldn’t even think, he was so tired. All he wanted to do was sleep. “Even an Apprentice can do that.”

  “I know nothing of Armethaliehan magic. How do you pay for your spells?” Wirance asked.

  Cilarnen stared at him in utterly exhausted irritation. There must be a thousand things that needed doing right now. Why was this man sitting here with him asking how the High Magick worked?

  “Pay? You don’t ‘pay’ for spells in the High Magick.” Something occurred to him in the back of his mind, something about the Talismans, but the thought flew away and escaped him.

  “All magic has a price, young Apprentice, and woe to your teachers that they did not teach you this. You have paid dearly for the spell you cast today, and now you must rest,” Wirance said.

  He put an arm under Cilarnen’s shoulders, and lifted him to his feet. Cilarnen staggered, the world reeling greyly around him. Despite himself, he clutched at Wirance for support.

  “It is as I said,” Wirance said implacably.

  Suddenly arguing with Wirance didn’t seem worthwhile any longer.

  “I will take him to a place where he may rest, then return to aid you,” Kardus said, putting his arm around Cilarnen. Cilarnen leaned against the Centaur gratefully.

  To his relief, they did not return to the square, but went back along the same back street he’d gone down not so long before. Kardus seemed to know Stonehearth as well as Cilarnen did.

  When they reached the place where Cilarnen had encountered the Demon, he flinched, as if it somehow might still be here.

  “It was here,” Cilarnen said shakily. “It looked human.”

  “They can appear in any guise they choose,” Kardus said.

  Suddenly the Demon’s words came back to him, as if he were hearing them at that very moment Not the part about Kellen. That was Kellen’s problem—and if Kellen really was a Wildmage, he wouldn’t care if Lycaelon had supplanted him or not. But the rest:

  And daily our foothold in the City grows stronger …

  Were there Demons in the City?

  “Wait—wait!” Cilarnen gasped. “It told me—it said—when it thought I was Kellen—that the Demons have a foothold in the City—in Armethalieh. I’ve got to tell …”

  Who? Who could he tell? He couldn’t return to the City. He probably couldn’t even cross the Border and live.

  “I’ve got to tell someone,” Cilarnen said desperately.

  “Indeed you must,” Kardus agreed. “You must tell Kellen Wildmage, for he makes war against the Demons, and if there are Demons in Armethalieh, he will make war against them as well. It is my Task to bring you to him, but we will speak further of that when you are rested.”

  KARDUS took him to the stables, not to Grander’s house, but Cilarnen was so exhausted he didn’t think to question it. He took a horse blanket and curled up in an unused stall, and was asleep before Kardus had left the stables.

  When he woke again it was dark, and the stillness in the air told him it was snowing. There was no light in the stable, but he knew his way around it by touch after so long, and groped his way to the lantern and tinderbox.

  He was reaching for the flint and steel when he realized he would never need them again. He concentrated, and the lantern bloomed into light.

  He felt dizzy for a moment, and shrugged it off, closing the lantern door and watching the small flame steady to brightness. His momentary weakness didn’t matter. What mattered was why he should be able to do this at all—or shou
ld have been able to cast the Mageshield that had saved his life when the Demon had first attacked him. His Gift should be gone, burned from his brain.

  But it hadn’t been. It had merely been … sleeping. And this made no sense at all. He was grateful, no, more than grateful, he was elated—but it made no sense at all.

  No Mage would have let him leave the City with his Gift intact, even if they expected him to be dead within bells. And it could not be an accident.

  It must have been deliberate.

  Undermage Anigrel had done this deliberately. But why? Had he hoped that the young Apprentice, if he left the Gift intact, could somehow use the High Magick to get himself beyond the reach of the Hunt? But that couldn’t be right, because his magick hadn’t worked when he’d first tried it.

  Cilarnen shook his head. Whatever Undermage Anigrel’s motives, he had more pressing concerns now. He picked up the lantern and left the stable.

  It was snowing, and the snow had swept the smell of smoke from the air. It should have been peaceful; it wasn’t. It was early evening, but the streets were oddly dark and quiet. Without cloak or hood, Cilarnen shivered in the cold night air. He felt unnerved and unsettled, and the silence filled him with an edgy energy.

  He’d meant to go directly to Grander’s house—as he shook off the last veils of sleep, he became more worried about what had happened to his friends—but as he walked up the street, he neared the tavern next to the smithy and finally started to hear voices. He hurried toward them.

  As he approached, a strange Centaur male hailed him.

  “You! Grander’s boy! Come and help!”

  Cilarnen came at a run.

  The Centaur who had hailed him was one of the warriors who had arrived earlier that day. He was still bloody from the fight, and one arm was splinted and in a sling, but he looked vigorous enough. Looking past him, Cilarnen could see that both the forge and tavern had been converted to a makeshift hospital, and were filled with Centaur wounded.

  “Someone said you were a Mage. Have you Healing skills?” the Centaur demanded.

  Cilarnen shook his head, his spirits falling. “None,” he said. “Wirance—or Kardus—”

  “Both occupied with worse cases than these. They will come when they can.” The Centaur looked weary. “I had hoped …”

  “If there is anything I can do, I will do it,” Cilarnen said quickly. “I work in the stables. I know you are not horses, but—”

  “An able body and a willing pair of hands counts for much, if you are not afraid of blood,” the Centaur said.

  “After today, I do not think I will ever be afraid of it again,” Cilarnen said bleakly.

  FOR the next several hours, Cilarnen worked at the direction of others, stitching wounds, changing poultices over burns, and helping to draw limbs straight so they could be splinted.

  Because those who had been lucky enough to escape injury were needed elsewhere—to search through the rubble of smashed buildings for trapped survivors, to build firebreaks, and to lend their strength (whatever that meant: Cilarnen wasn’t sure) to Wirance’s Wildmage spells—the injured had been left to tend to each other. Cilarnen learned, in scraps of conversations during the work, that the snow was Wirance’s doing, so that the fires the Demon had set could be contained and extinguished, since the well had been destroyed. Half the homes of Stonehearth had been either damaged or destroyed outright in its attack, though this part of the village, the farthest from the square, was untouched.

  It seemed to Cilarnen that there was no end to the wounded and burned …

  And then, suddenly, there was. He found himself with bandages in his hands, and no one to put them on. “Here,” said Comild, taking them from him gently and putting them with the rest of the scavenged supplies. “Go and wash yourself—there’s water over there.” He pointed with his chin, and Cilarnen saw a bucket, and at the same time, realized that his hands were sticky with blood and unguents.

  Holding down a surge of nausea, he hastened to cleanse himself as well as he could.

  “It will not be too difficult to rebuild the well, though it may be best to call for a unicorn to purify it,” Comild said.

  “I suppose,” Cilarnen said vaguely, not understanding what a unicorn could have to do with a well. He looked up at the Centaur. “What are you going to do now? You’re not going home, are you?”

  Comild shook his head. “Kindrius is dead, but it remains to be seen if any of the other sub-Captains still live. If they do, we will choose a new leader from among our number. If I am the only survivor, the honor is mine. And we go on, wounded or not. We will recover, and our allies need us.”

  “You’re going to be a Captain?” Cilarnen asked.

  “Not the way I would choose it,” Comild said broodingly. “I hope your friends are well. Best go and see. There’s little more you can do for my men.”

  Tired once more—but in a different way now—Cilarnen stepped out into the street again. It was dawn now. He’d worked through the night. This time the cold air felt good.

  He looked down at his tunic. He’d rolled up the sleeves when he’d set to work, but the front was as bloody and soiled as if he’d been working in a butcher’s shop. He blinked back tears. Sarlin’s rich gift, ruined.

  He was glad—suddenly desperately glad—that he’d been able to find the words to thank her for it when she’d given it to him. He hadn’t meant them properly at the time. He hadn’t understood why he’d said it. He hadn’t understood himself.

  He hadn’t understood a lot of things.

  He’d find her now. He’d explain. He’d thank her properly—tell them all how much they meant to him.

  He began to run.

  THE street that Grander’s house was on was one of the lucky ones; its houses were untouched, though the roofs of the houses on the opposite side showed some fire-gaps through the snow. The street was awake; every house was filled with refugees. Centaurs in full armor patrolled the streets, and Cilarnen realized with a sudden flare of alarm that where there was one Demon, there might be more. The village could be attacked again.

  He heard his name called a couple of times, but did not stop. He had to get home.

  He pushed open the door of Grander’s house. The common room was filled with Centaurs. All were villagers familiar to him, but he saw no one that belonged to the household.

  “Blessed Herdsman—it’s Cilarnen!” Corela gasped. The kindly middle-aged Centauress started forward, her face a mask of shock. “We thought you must be dead—now, don’t move. Where are you hurt?”

  “I’m not hurt,” Cilarnen said. “It’s not my blood. I’m all right. Are you—Is—Where is—?” He looked around, still hoping to see familiar faces, and saw none.

  “Come into the kitchen,” Corela said, coming forward and putting an arm around his shoulders.

  There was soup, tea, and hot ale in the kitchen. Corela dismissed the Centaurs working there with a glance, and closed the door behind them with one well-placed nudge of her hind hoof.

  “There is bad news,” she said. “It is best given quickly.”

  Cilarnen nodded, unable to ask.

  “Grander and Marlen are gone to the Herd. They are truly dead. I’ve seen their bodies. Not pretty, but quick. Jarel has lost an eye, but he will live, they think, with scars to brag on. Erlock’s leg will heal, but it is likely he will be lame. Minor injuries only to the others of this house—so minor that they were all able to share price with Wirance, and so they are sleeping now. Sarlin, too.”

  “They can’t be dead,” Cilarnen said blankly. I never told them how land they were to me. I never thanked them.

  “They have gone to the Herd,” Corela repeated gently. “And they will be reborn as good spring grass to feed our flocks. Now wash and eat. There are many tasks that need doing.”

  “The horses,” Cilarnen said, with a pang of guilty realization. It didn’t matter what else had happened in the world. The horses still needed to be looked after—fed and w
atered and turned out for exercise. “I have to go to the stables. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Wash first,” Corela told him firmly. “And eat.”

  IT was good advice, so Cilarnen took it He didn’t think that the horses would appreciate it if he came to them reeking of blood.

  Once he’d finished his morning stable chores, it occurred to him that nobody probably had time for any of Stonehearth’s livestock that morning.

  Well, he did. He didn’t need to sleep yet. He wasn’t sure he could. There was something inside him, something that made his chest and throat feel tight whenever he thought of Grander, something that wanted to burst out. It was worse than when he’d been caught and told he was going to be Banished.

  Much worse.

  He didn’t want to be alone with it.

  The sheep and goat-pens were outside the walls, guarded by shaggy herding-dogs in their kennels. The great beasts came rushing forward when Cilarnen appeared, barking savagely when they caught his scent, then sniffing and nudging at him hopefully.

  No one has been here to feed them either, Cilarnen realized. The sheep and goats could eat hay, but that wouldn’t do for the dogs. He’d have to go find something to feed them after he unpenned the animals.

  The barking had roused the pens’ inhabitants, and a great bleating and baa-ing issued from within. Cilarnen opened each door in turn, jumping out of the way quickly to avoid being trampled by the outrush of hairy and woolly bodies.

  The herd dogs, abandoning immediate hope of food, rounded up their charges and began herding them down to the river for their long-delayed morning drink. While they were gone, Cilarnen went to the storage barn, unbolted the door, and began dragging shocks of fodder out, dumping them in the snow. Centaurs might be able to carry them, but he wasn’t nearly as strong as a Centaur.

  He had no idea how many were enough, or what to do with them, but at least the animals wouldn’t starve.