To Light a Candle

by Mercedes Lackey

  When they got there, Kellen received one of the few pleasant surprises of the night. The pit had been filled in—as if it had never been—and lying in the snow atop it were the two halves of the ice-drake.

  Like the Deathwings, it seemed to be decomposing with supernatural swiftness, and the destriers, well-trained though they were, flatly refused to approach the stinking remains.

  “At least we know who won,” Kellen said. I hope they’re both all right.

  They turned their horses back toward the cavern, bearing their dead and leading the now-masterless destriers.

  BY the time Kellen and the remains of his troop returned to the lines, the tide of battle had shifted firmly in the Elves’ favor. Belepheriel met them as they were coming in. The Elven Commander rode at the head of a full hundred; for all their numbers, still only a fraction of the troops under his command.

  “To see you gladdens my heart, Kellen Knight-Mage,” he said, as serenely as if there was not still fighting going on all around them.

  “And mine to see you, Belepheriel,” Kellen said, “though the news I bring makes ill-hearing.”

  “Jermayan and Ancaladar have returned, and told us of the ice-drake’s destruction,” the commander replied. “The battle goes well for us—there are only scattered knots of resistance from the enemy now, and our line holds firm. Jermayan has sealed the main entrance with ice, so they may not retreat, and by dawn the field will be ours.”

  “And I have failed,” Kellen said bitterly. “I lost the Shadowed Elves I was sent to find—they escaped, and I could find no trace of them. I sent Nironoshan to warn the city, but …”

  “And if you had not, Jermayan and Ancaladar would not have known to seek out the ice-drake, and we would have lost far more this night than the location of a few Shadowed Elves,” Belepheriel said reprovingly. “One warrior does not win the war, as Master Belesharon will surely have told you. Come. You have done your part, and now that I have found you, I have done mine. With the line secure, Redhelwar has ordered the Healers’ wagons brought up. You and your men need healing, rest, warmth, and tea. I will make your report to Redhelwar.”

  Kellen wanted to argue the point, but he was too tired, and far too cold—and he certainly owed his command and their mounts a rest. So he followed Belepheriel to the Healers’ encampment, a circle of wagons set up half a mile away from the lines.

  He was unsurprised to find Idalia there as well. She came out of the Healers’ Tent to view the new arrivals, took one look at him and ordered him into the Healers’ Tent.

  “But I’m not—” Kellen began.

  “Now.”

  Kellen sighed and obeyed “Go warm up,” he said to the others.

  It was bright inside the Healers’ Tent, and after so long outside, it seemed swelteringly hot. Frost formed on the exposed surface of Kellen’s armor and melted immediately.

  “Jermayan told me about the ice-drake. You know what they can do. Didn’t it occur to you that it was going to kill you? Take off your armor,” Idalia commanded.

  He blinked at her in confusion. “Well, yes, but, I—now?”

  “No, after the flesh has fallen from your bones with frost-burn,” Idalia said acidly.

  Kellen unhooked his cloak and dropped it to the floor of the tent, then pulled off his helmet. Idalia studied his face critically.

  “Not too bad,” she pronounced. “Come on—boots and gauntlets.”

  His hands and feet had been numb with cold before; the warmth of the tent made them ache now. Clumsily, he managed to get his gauntlets off, and barely remembered to keep his leather gloves on to remove his frost-cold sabatons and greaves—sitting down first on a wooden stool that Idalia impatiently indicated. At last his bare hands and feet were exposed.

  The skin was white with cold, but whatever horrible affliction Idalia was looking for, she didn’t find it. Nevertheless, she pulled a pot of salve from her apron pocket, knelt before him, and rubbed it into his feet briskly.

  It hurt.

  Kellen kept his mouth shut, though. She might think of something worse.

  When she was done with his feet, she did his hands—and that hurt even more. Then she wiped her hands clean, took a pot of something else entirely, and daubed it liberally over his face. That, at least, was pleasant—the thick salve smelled of honey and lanolin.

  “All right. You can armor up again. You were damned lucky,” Idalia said grudgingly. “I know you were warned about frost-burn.”

  “Well, yes,” Kellen admitted. Too long in the cold, and the flesh died on the bone, and then rotted if not seen to. The Healers had been very graphic about it. “But it’s not as if we had time to stop and build a fire.”

  Idalia grunted, reluctantly and wordlessly conceding his point.

  Kellen gratefully put his armor back on, and picked up his cloak. There were deep slashes in it from Shadowed Elf blades, but perhaps someone would be able to repair it later. He got to his feet.

  “Idalia, I lost track of Ciltesse and several of my other people earlier,” he said hesitantly. “Have you seen … ?”

  Idalia shook her head, compassion in her expression now. “I haven’t seen them. But I’m not the only Healer here. Someone else may have. Or they may not have been wounded at all. Check with the others.”

  Checking with the Healers might be a good idea, but as Kellen left the tent, two more Elves were brought in, one bleeding from a deep sword-cut, the other shaking from poison. Right now the Healers had enough to do.

  He left the tent and passed behind the ring of wagons. The horse-lines were set up there, with lanterns illuminating large braziers heating the ever-present kettles of soup and tea. He quickly found the others.

  There’s bad news. He could tell that from Isinwen’s posture alone, as the Elven Knight stood huddled against the brazier’s heat, his helmet beneath his arm.

  “Tell me quickly,” Kellen said, coming up.

  “Ciltesse is dead,” Isinwen said. “I saw Jolia in the horse-lines, and I asked. Others—Valhile, Penerniel, Aldere—”

  “Gone to Leaf and Star,” Reyezeyt said softly.

  Kellen took a deep breath. He’d seen Ayihletevizi fall earlier tonight in the fighting: Lirgrinteko, Rirnas, Airiren … and those the Shadowed Elves had killed at the pit as well.

  He’d lost more than half his command tonight. Elves he’d ridden with, trained with, lived with. Trusted his life to.

  And sworn to keep safe.

  He bowed his head, feeling his throat swell with unsheddable tears.

  “Alakomentai,” Isinwen said gently, “it is not easy. But it happens, in war. You were not generous with our lives. You were our mayn against the enemy, first in every battle.”

  Mayn meant “shield” in the Old Tongue of the Elves. Kellen was not comforted. He took a deep breath.

  “If our losses were so heavy …” he began.

  “Ah. No. Do not fear that,” Reyezeyt said, sounding almost relieved at what he thought was the cause of Kellen’s distress. “The skirmishing units took the brunt of the enemy’s attack. We and the Mountainfolk took the heaviest losses, I hear. The army is still strong.”

  It was cold cheer, but it would have to do.

  “Come,” Kaldet urged. “Take tea. It is crude and simple stuff, but it will warm you.”

  Twenty-two

  Smoke and Storm

  At dawn the warhorns blew the victory. Hours before, carts of wounded had begun moving back toward the camp, well guarded by line units that could now be spared from what was by now little more than a series of executions. Kellen and his people remained, having no orders otherwise, and slowly a few last stragglers from Kellen’s troop found them: Rhuifai. Janshil. Krinyen.

  Kellen knew that Isinwen was right. Loss was the price of war. No one blamed him for the deaths.

  Except himself.

  You’ve got to stop this, or you’ll go mad, he told himself. If Belepheriel can forgive you for Imerteniel’s death, then you have to forgiv
e yourself now, because the deaths of those who died tonight are no more your fault than Imerteniel’s was. If you can’t forgive yourself, you’ll be useless in this fight. And the stakes are too high for that.

  They knew what they were doing, and they did it willingly and gladly. They were Elven Knights, trained for war. Don’t dishonor their deaths by letting them make you less than what you are.

  “We will always remember them,” Kellen said, heavily.

  He’d been silent a very long time. Isinwen looked up in surprise when he finally spoke.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Their names will be entered in the Great Book in the House of Sword and Shield. The House will remember them, and so will our children. And Leaf and Star will remember also, as long as the forests bloom and the stars burn.”

  And it’s our job to make sure that the forests bloom forever, Kellen thought grimly. I’ll make sure they do. I swear it.

  A few hours after dawn, Adaerion rode down with the order for Kellen and his troop to retreat back to camp.

  “And make sure you eat and sleep when you get there. You’re going into the cavern tomorrow,” Adaerion said when they were mounted and ready to ride.

  Wearily, Kellen turned Firareth’s head toward camp.

  KELLEN missed the next battle, which took place that very night. Redhelwar brought the Unicorn Knights up from Ysterialpoerin to the farther cavern, backed them with a handpicked selection of volunteer cavalry that could work in close proximity to unicorns, and arranged for Jermayan and Ancaladar to slaughter a small herd of deer directly below the cavern mouth.

  He didn’t ask Jermayan to unseal the ice barriers over the cavern openings. There was no need.

  The ever-voracious Goblins, lured out into the darkness by the scent of fresh meat, swarmed toward the mound of venison through the ice and rock. And once they began to feed, the Unicorn Knights attacked. One thrust of their mounts’ horns would kill a Goblin, and though the creatures spat poison, the touch of a unicorn’s horn could quickly heal the hurt.

  Though the Elves slew them in great numbers, the lure of food—dead deer, the bodies of slain Goblins, and the prospect of living prey—kept the creatures coming. They must have been more than usually ravenous; perhaps the Shadowed Elves had kept them short of prey. Many of them stopped to eat instead of attacking, and Elven lancers, riding in and out of the fray, quickly added the new arrivals to the swiftly growing mound of dead at little risk to themselves. Goblins would rather eat than kill and would break off an attack in order to feed. Only in the absence of food were they truly dangerous to an enemy. So long as there was something to eat, they could be killed with relative impunity.

  And at last, no more Goblins emerged into the upper air.

  As Redhelwar had told Kellen, the Elves had hunted Goblins many times in the past.

  THAT was the tale Kellen heard when he was roused at dawn of the next day. He might have slept even longer, save for the fact that someone was shaking the bells at the door of his tent—and had been for some time, by the sound of things.

  He staggered over to the doorway, still wearing his armor’s underpadding. Idalia was standing there, a roll of cloth under one arm and a covered mug in the other.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “You’re still alive. You certainly slept like the dead.” She dumped the bundle on the floor of his tent and held out the mug. “Amethaliehan Black. I figured you’d need something stronger than Winter Spice this morning.”

  “How long … ?” Kellen croaked, snatching for the mug and flipping back the lid. The fragrant smell of—very strong—tea filled the pavilion. He drank eagerly.

  “Let’s see,” Idalia said, pretending to think about it. “It’s dawn, so the battle at the cavern ended yesterday morning. Last night the Unicorn Knights—with a little help from qualifying cavalry—lured out and killed what’s probably all of the Goblins from the caverns. Now Redhelwar wants to see you as soon as you’ve eaten. So you should probably get dressed and go see him.” She dropped the tent flap and walked off while Kellen was still coining to terms with being awake.

  Kellen finished his tea and put on his armor—apparently he’d cleaned both before passing out yesterday, though he didn’t remember doing it—and put on a fresh surcoat. The bundle Idalia had dropped was his coldwarg-fur cloak, mended.

  I have to remember to thank her for that—if she won’t take my head off for it.

  PETARIEL was in the dining tent, and Kellen got a more detailed version of the slaughter of the Goblins from him as he worked his way through a platterful of food.

  “I wish I’d been there,” he said, surprised to find it was true.

  “Well, we can’t let you have all the fun,” Petariel said reprovingly. “It made a nice change from riding picket around the Heart of the Forest, I assure you. We return Nironoshan to you, incidentally—while we thank you for the warning, if you’ve lost any Shadowed Elves, I assure you, we haven’t found them.”

  “They’ve probably run off to some other rat-hole,” Kellen said darkly. “Just … in case they haven’t …”

  “We’ll continue to look for them,” Petariel assured him. “But I don’t think I can promise to return them to you in the condition you last saw them.”

  Kellen shook his head, smiling painfully. He knew Petariel’s lightly-mocking words were a mask for the grief that all the Elves shared at being forced to execute those they thought of as their own kind.

  He understood it better than he would have once. Petariel had offered Kellen neither sympathy nor acknowledgment for the members of his troop he had lost in the battle, though he was sure Petariel knew about them, and for that, Kellen was profoundly grateful. If Petariel had, Kellen wasn’t sure he’d have been able to stand it.

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to return them at all,” he said, striving to match his friend’s tone. “One does not ask for the return of a gift.”

  “Since you have given me such a rich gift, I shall have to ask Gesade what I may gift you with in suitable recompense,” Petariel said. “But you must go now, else you will be late for the day’s interesting events.”

  WHEN Kellen arrived in Redhelwar’s pavilion, the senior commanders, Idalia, Vestakia—in her scarlet armor—and Jermayan were already there. Once he would have fretted about being late. Now Kellen simply assumed that if Redhelwar had wanted him earlier, he would have sent someone to fetch him.

  “Kellen Knigh/*t-Mage,” Redhelwar greeted him. “It is now time to finish what we have begun. Vestakia must lead us to the Shadowed Elf village.”

  Kellen thought about it for a moment. “Will it work?” he asked bluntly. “I know you can sense Taint, Vestakia, but the Shadowed Elves aren’t the only Tainted things still in there—even without Goblins.”

  Vestakia nodded. “I know I can’t tell one kind of Tainted creature from another, but from what Jermayan says about the duergar, if we go in lit with Coldfire, they’ll sense it and get as far away from us as possible—and the Shadowed Elves won’t.”

  We hope, Kellen thought grimly.

  “We’ve killed all—or nearly all—the Goblins, and most of the fighting males,” Redhelwar said. “What you should face today should be only females and young, though in greater numbers than you have faced before.”

  Kellen nodded. “Then Vestakia will be able to lead us to the village. And once she’s found it, she’ll return to the surface immediately.”

  “I won’t object,” Vestakia said with a rueful smile.

  JERMAYAN and Ancaladar were waiting for them at the cavern mouth. The day was dark, and even cold as it was, the air felt heavy instead of crisp. Kellen remembered what the other Wildmages had said about the weather. Because of that—and because clearing the caverns of all their Tainted inhabitants would probably not be the work of a single day, Redhelwar would be making a second, temporary, camp here, once the battlefield had been cleared. The Elves were still working to remove the bodies of the slain Shadowed Elves as the fighting force
rode through, and everywhere Kellen looked the snow was churned and stained. He found himself looking forward to the snow to come.

  Before they’d arrived, Jermayan had improved the path to the cavern mouth—now it was a long gentle slope instead of the steep twisting path the Shadowed Elves had carved. As those who would enter the cavern began to dismount, he banished the shield of ice that had barred the entrance.

  “First ranks, take your shields,” Adaerion ordered.

  The supply wagon with Artenel’s experimental shields stood ready and waiting. Kellen collected his and hefted it. Artenel had made some improvements, including a shoulder-piece that would allow the shield’s weight to be more evenly-distributed. There weren’t enough shields for everyone, but at least those in front would have greater protection than before from the Shadowed Elves’ preferred weapons.

  They ascended into the cavern. Kellen and Isinwen led, with Idalia and Vestakia directly behind him. As before, the passageway was straight at first, and narrow enough that only two Elven Knights could walk side-by-side. Kellen walked carefully, alert for trip-wires. Just because they didn’t expect this lair to be catch-trapped didn’t mean it might not be. And a quickly prepared trap could be just as lethal as one that had been moonturns in the making.

  But he saw nothing at all—not trip-wire, goblin, nor Shadowed Elf—and soon they came to the first point in the cavern where a decision as to their direction must be made. By now, the only light came from the Coldfire that crowned them all.

  Behind him, he heard Vestakia’s breathing grow ragged, though she tried hard to control it.

  “Which way?” Kellen asked.

  “Left—far left,” she corrected, as the tunnel branched in all directions here.