To Light a Candle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “It can talk!” Cilarnen blurted.

  Kellen groaned inwardly and closed his eyes. Poor Cilarnen. When Shalkan got done with him—

  “Oh, my, yes,” Shalkan said in his archest tones. “Quite as well as a human. Isn’t that surprising? Of course, I’ve had a great deal more practice at talking than you seem to have. Why, I can form complete sentences and say exactly what I mean, for example.”

  “But—I mean—I didn’t—That is—” Cilarnen stuttered.

  Kellen ignored the byplay. He dismounted, walked over to Anganil, led the young stallion over to Firareth, and tied his reins firmly to Firareth’s saddle. He didn’t intend to spend the rest of the morning chasing Anganil through the snow if Anganil took it into his head to dash off again. Then he walked over to Shalkan.

  “He doesn’t know about unicorns because nobody teaches anything about them in the City—anything important, anyway,” Kellen said, in a voice low enough that Cilarnen probably wouldn’t hear. “Which you know already. And I haven’t had time to explain everything to him yet.”

  Cilarnen clambered down from Firareth’s back and came over to them. Apparently Shalkan was willing to permit his approach, for the unicorn stayed where he was.

  Cilarnen was staring at Shalkan, oblivious to the falling snow. “Can I touch him?” he asked, and the note of raw longing in his voice would have melted a much harder heart than Kellen’s.

  “You have to ask Shalkan,” Kellen said. “It’s not my decision.”

  “May I?” Cilarnen asked, speaking directly to Shalkan now. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just—You’re so beautiful.”

  “He’ll give you a honey-cake,” Kellen said cunningly, rummaging in his tunic.

  “Bribery,” Shalkan scoffed, lowering his head and pawing at the snow—but apparently the combination of contrition, bribery, and flattery was sufficient. After crunching his way through the honey-cake held on Cilarnen’s outstretched hand, Shalkan allowed himself to be touched. From the look on Cilarnen’s face, he was willing to stand there forever, stroking the soft fur of Shalkan’s neck.

  “We need to get back,” Kellen finally—reluctantly—said. He actually hated to tear Cilarnen away. The boy looked utterly smitten.

  “Will I get to see you again?” Cilarnen said to Shalkan, sounding forlorn.

  Kellen could tell that Shalkan was trying very hard not to laugh, but the unicorn’s voice, when he answered, was admirably steady.

  “Oh, have Kellen bring you up to the Unicorn Camp whenever he likes. You can meet the rest of us there.” With that, Shalkan turned and trotted off.

  Cilarnen turned to Kellen, his whole face a question.

  “You didn’t think Shalkan was the only one, did you?” Kellen said. “Come on.”

  He’d expected Cilarnen to ride back with him, but Cilarnen moved confidently toward Anganil.

  “Cilarnen—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. He’s thrown me once, and now he’ll see if he can do it again. I know.” He looked over his shoulder at Kellen, with determination in the line of his jaw. “But you said I could try.”

  Yes, Idalia would kill him. And she’d skin him first. But how could he not give the boy a chance? He was learning.

  He was learning faster than Kellen had, in some ways.

  “Go ahead. Try not to get killed.”

  He waited, holding Anganil’s headstall, until Cilarnen had mounted, and then handed him the reins.

  The ride back went pretty much as Kellen had assumed it would—with one exception: Cilarnen was not thrown again. Once Anganil realized that this very entertaining spectacle was not to be allowed to repeat itself, he quieted down completely, and the two destriers trotted sedately side-by-side back to the horse-lines.

  Cilarnen had only a little difficulty removing the unfamiliar tack, and soon they were on their way back to Kellen’s pavilion again. And there was no doubt whatsoever that although meeting Shalkan must have been the high point of Cilarnen’s life, riding the destrier had been the second highest. He was so full of wonder and ebullience that a little of it actually bubbled over and made Kellen’s spirits rise.

  “I’ve never ridden a horse like that before!” Cilarnen said excitedly.

  “You’ve never seen a horse like that before,” Kellen corrected him.

  “Hyandur—” Cilarnen began.

  “Rode a palfrey—a riding horse. Not a warhorse. Anything Elven-bred is beautiful,” Kellen conceded, “but the destriers are special. Very, very special.”

  Kellen opened the flap of his tent and stepped inside, calling light into the lanterns to brighten the gloom. He noticed that Isinwen had already lit the brazier and stoked it high; it was actually warm in the tent.

  And Isinwen had indeed been busy. There was a ewer and bowl waiting on the low table that had previously held the tea service, and piled on the clothes chest were Cilarnen’s new clothes.

  Not only was there a full outfit, including boots, gloves, and cloak—with, Kellen did not doubt, more to come—it all matched (at least as far as Kellen could tell), and since it looked turquoise in the light of Kellen’s tent, it was probably blue.

  Kellen picked up the gloves. Now here was something odd. There ought to be a pattern woven into the leggings, embroidered on the tunic, stamped into the leather of the gloves and boots. But there wasn’t.

  How, he wondered, had Isinwen managed that?

  “Here you go,” he said, gesturing at the clothing. “Get dressed. You might even have time to get something to eat before we’re supposed to be there, assuming your appetite’s back.”

  Cilarnen had carried the tunic over to the doorway and was studying it in the light. “Blue,” he said in disgust. “Like a Student.”

  “That’s purely accident,” Kellen said forcefully. “Isinwen chose the color because he thought it would be becoming to you. The clothes are warm. You’re not a Knight, so you’re not stuck with the color. You can change it. You can ask for clothing to be made for you later in any color you like.”

  “To my House colors?”

  “Maybe.” Kellen tried to remember what they were, and couldn’t. “Not if the Elves don’t think they’re suitable for your complexion though. And only Knights really have specific colors.”

  “Is that why everything you have is green?”

  Here we go again. “It matches Shalkan’s eyes. As you’ve probably noticed. Now, it would please me greatly if you would honor me by getting dressed. You’ll be warmer, and you’ll be appropriately garbed for the occasion.”

  Cilarnen pulled off his gloves and began to unlace his short cloak. “I suppose, since you’re my friend, you’re telling me the truth about the clothes,” he said dubiously.

  “I’m not your friend,” Kellen said with simple bluntness. Certainly not yet. Perhaps not ever.

  Cilarnen stopped. “Then … why did you give me Anganil?”

  Kellen thought hard—and honestly. “To teach you,” he finally said.

  Cilarnen removed his cloak and set it aside. For a few minutes he was occupied—in silence—with changing from old clothes to new, stopping for a quick wash in between. Isinwen had even been able to provide a belt with a couple of carrying-pouches, though Cilarnen’s own Centaur-made knife would have to retain its own sheath until a new one could be made. It would look odd, but if he wore it toward the back, it would be hidden by the cloak.

  When Cilarnen was dressed, he tucked his gloves through his belt in the fashion of Armethalieh, and smoothed his hand down the thick velvet. “You wanted to teach me that this is neither Armethalieh nor Stonehearth,” he said, understanding in his voice.

  “Yes,” Kellen said. “Once more, you must begin again.” I hope you can. He held out the cloak—hooded, ankle-length, and lined in ermine.

  Cilarnen no longer looked like a rustic Wild Lands farmer. He looked elegant and patrician.

  “Kellen,” Cilarnen said in a troubled voice. “Remember that I told you I saw the Thing at Stonehea
rth?”

  As if I’ve forgotten that for an instant.

  “It looked human at first—when it spoke to me. It was wearing odd clothes, all white. Clothes I’d never seen before. Until now. Not exactly like these, but … similar.”

  It was dressed like an Elf? Kellen wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was sure it was something meaningful … and bad.

  “You’ll need to draw what you saw for us, as exactly as you can. It may be important.” He thought hard for a moment. “In fact, every tiny little detail you can remember might be critical.”

  Cilarnen nodded soberly.

  Colors mattered to the Elves. White was the color of the Unformed—Anganil’s tack had been white because he had no master.

  It was also the color of the shrouds the Elves used to suspend their dead in the trees.

  The color of Unmaking.

  WHEN Kellen and Cilarnen arrived at Redhelwar’s tent, the Senior Commanders and some others—Jermayan, Idalia, Vestakia; representatives of the Centaur and High Reaches fighting forces; a few other Wildmages—were already there.

  The honored guest arrives last, Kellen reminded himself. He hadn’t expected quite so large an audience for Cilarnen’s speech, but he suspected that rumors were already flying about the camp, and it would be just as well to be able to provide hard information in as many directions as possible as quickly as possible to keep those rumors from growing.

  Small cups of tea were served; a token formality only.

  “You have spoken with Cilarnen High-Mage of Armethalieh, Kellen,” Redhelwar said, coming quickly to the point. “What have you learned?”

  “I believe him indeed to be Cilarnen Volpiril,” Kellen said carefully. Best to settle the obvious questions first. “Vestakia sensed no Taint in him, nor did Shalkan object to either his presence nor his touch. I would say … he is who he seems.”

  “And the reason for his presence here?” Redhelwar asked.

  “In Stonehearth, one of Them spoke to him as if he were me.” He looked at Cilarnen curiously. Why had Kardus brought Cilarnen to him? He’d never thought to ask.

  “I had to tell someone,” Cilarnen said. “Someone who could help. Kardus said to tell you.”

  “The Wild Magic gave Kardus the Task of bringing Cilarnen and his information to me,” Kellen said, setting the pieces of the puzzle into a form the Elves would easily understand.

  “From the look upon both your faces, the news that Cilarnen brought is of grave importance,” Belepheriel said. “It would be good if you would share it with us.”

  “Tell them what It said to you,” Kellen said.

  Once more Cilarnen recited the words the Demon had spoken to him in Stonehearth. He might have dropped a bolt of lightning in their midst and gotten less reaction.

  “A foothold in the human city!” Padredor exclaimed. “Impossible—they could not breach its wards any more than they can breach our own.”

  “Yet, if I ken these words aright, they have breached them,” Adaerion pointed out. “Yet one does not properly understand what catspaws could they use in a place where everyone must be human and all magic but Mage-magic is banned.”

  “We have to find out,” Kellen said. He looked at Idalia.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t had any luck Seeing the City since we fled the last Scouring Hunt. The Gods know I’ve tried, but … nothing. And putting that together with this news makes me very uneasy.”

  “There is another matter I would raise concerning Cilarnen,” Kellen said, choosing his words with care. “I do not speak against his honor, yet it is a mystery. He is here because he was Banished, as I was, from Armethalieh. It is the custom of the High Mages to burn the Magegift from the minds of those they Banish. That they did not do it in my case was … an oversight.” And the work of the Wild Magic, he did not doubt. “Yet Cilarnen’s was not destroyed—only suppressed until the day of the battle at Stonehearth.”

  “Who was supposed to do it?” Idalia asked. “If we’re looking for treasonous Mages, there’s a place to start.”

  “It was Undermage Lord Anigrel,” Cilarnen said.

  “I suppose Master Anigrel could have been elevated,” Kellen said doubtfully, “but he was Lycaelon’s private secretary. You might as well expect Lycaelon himself to be plotting to overthrow the City.”

  “Could it have gone wrong?” Idalia asked. “Could he have tried to Burn it out and just … missed?”

  Cilarnen shook his head. “I am no Mind-healer, my lady—one must study for years to become adept at that—but I know a little of the theory. To ‘miss’ would have killed me. To leave me whole, but without my Gift, that is as delicate a thing as—as taking the spice out of brewed tea. To simply put it to sleep, so I didn’t even know it was there … that is more delicate work still. Yet—” He shook his head. “Yet I think, now, that is what was deliberately done.”

  “Could a Journeyman do it?” Kellen asked. That had been Anigrel’s rank—and by the way the City worked, it would be for years to come.

  Cilarnen shook his head again, smiling painfully. “It is not what I studied—would have studied. But Mindwork is only done by a Master Undermage … and work so delicate, I would say would require a Magister-Practimus—a full High Mage—at least.”

  “How delicate?” Kellen asked. “Is it just that you need a light touch, or a mind for details, or what, exactly?”

  “I don’t know! Kellen, I was only an Entered Apprentice! I’d barely begun my studies in the Art Magickal!” Cilarnen protested.

  “You know more than anyone else here,” Kellen said. “You’re going to have to make your best guesses and tell us all you can.”

  “I’ll tell you what I … know,” Cilarnen said, hesitating over the last word. “You know the Mageborn swear oaths not to speak about the High Magick to the Commons, but don’t worry that I’ll hold anything back. I’ve already broken those oaths.”

  He looked miserable—no, more than that. Lost. Kellen didn’t know what to say to comfort him.

  “When you were Banished from your City, Cilarnen High Mage, your people took your name and your rank from you,” Belepheriel said, with the gravity of a judge. “In doing that, they also took from you all your sworn oaths. In speaking now, you violate nothing, and may save many. It is a new way you must learn now, but this is a time of learning new ways.”

  “Thank you,” Cilarnen said softly, bowing his head. Unconsciously he touched his chest, where his City-Talisman would have hung.

  “It looks like Anigrel is where we need to start,” Idalia said briskly. “And I very much want to see who’s sitting on the High Council these days, if there’s been a shift there. And who Lycaelon is now claiming as his son. The question is: how?”

  “That is a matter to be settled among Wildmages,” Redhelwar said firmly. “What my commanders and I must know is the extent of this ‘foothold’ It spoke of, so that we may determine what to do.”

  Idalia bowed. “We will bring you this information as quickly as we can, Redhelwar.”

  She and the other Wildmages left the pavilion.

  KELLEN and Cilarnen remained behind.

  Redhelwar regarded Kellen, brows raised.

  Kellen bowed.

  “You would speak,” Redhelwar observed.

  “I would,” Kellen agreed. “You know it has long been in my mind that this campaign has been Their attempt to keep us from seeing what needs to be seen.”

  “And it is now in your mind that while we dally here, They strike first at Armethalieh,” Redhelwar said.

  “Not dally,” Kellen said. “And not strike. I believe—I believe that this is a very different sort of warfare than They have ever practiced before. The Mageborn, I believe, remember Them, and fear Them, though they keep the fact a closely-guarded secret. I do not believe that a foothold could be taken by force. But … by seduction. As one of Them tried to seduce me at the Black Cairn. If it had worked—if I had believed Its lies—perhaps I would now be the agent you we
re all searching for in Armethalieh.”

  “No,” Redhelwar said somberly, “for we would all be dead of drought and wildfire. But should Armethalieh fight for the Darkness instead of the Light … Go with Idalia, Kellen. See what Knight-Magery and High Magick can do to assist her.”

  Kellen bowed again and left, taking Cilarnen with him.

  THEY caught up to the other Wildmages at the edge of the Mountainfolk camp.

  “Redhelwar sent us to see what we could do to help,” Kellen explained. “I can’t think of a thing I can do,” he added, shrugging.

  “Not until we have some idea of what we’re going to do,” Idalia agreed. She turned her attention to Cilarnen.

  “I know there are wards, but I’ve never worked on them,” he said. “So I have no idea of how to get past them. The little ones, for things like keeping mice out of grain—I’ve helped with those.”

  “What about distance-seeing spells?” Idalia asked.

  Cilarnen looked perfectly blank.

  Why, Idalia, how could you ever imagine that any of the Mageborn would ever want to see anything that happened outside the City? Kellen thought mockingly. If such spells existed in the arsenal of the High Magick, they were undoubtedly restricted to the higher ranks of the Mageborn. Cilarnen wouldn’t have begun to learn them for years—decades.

  “Well, we’ll get started. I want to try a few things—and have Jermayan and Ancaladar try them, too. Atroist and some of the Lost Lands Wildmages have arrived, and they know a number of ways of doing things I’m not familiar with. But I don’t think we’ll need your help yet. Join us here for dinner and I’ll let you know how far we’ve gotten. Bring wine.”

  Kellen laughed shortly at the morose tone of Idalia’s voice.

  “Wine it is,” he said. “Come on, Cilarnen, we’ll go up to the Unicorn Camp and catch them up on the gossip. Shalkan will pin my ears back if I don’t.”

  THEY stopped first at the dining tent to collect a cold lunch and some treats for the horses, and soon were riding up to the Unicorn Camp. Anganil behaved himself far better on this journey than he had on the last.