“Of course the working areas are shielded!” Cilarnen snapped. “Even you should remember that!”
Kellen held on to his temper with an effort. “What comes next?” he asked evenly.
Cilarnen explained.
And explained again.
And again.
“We’ll try this again tomorrow,” Idalia said with a sigh. “Maybe it will make more sense then. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m tired. Cilarnen, you’ve been very patient and you look like you could use a good night’s sleep—and I know you can, Kellen.”
And better to call a halt now, before tempers were well and truly lost, Kellen thought.
“Right. Come on, Cilarnen.”
They were the first out of the lodge, but waited outside for Kardus.
“I’ll see you back to your tent,” Kellen said.
“You don’t have to,” Cilarnen said.
“Oh, but how else will I know where it is—so I can wake you up in the middle of the night?” Kellen said lightly. They walked a little to the side, out of the path of the emerging Wildmages.
“Why can’t they understand it?” Cilarnen said in frustration. “It’s so simple.”
“It’s a different kind of magic,” Kellen said. “It’s like—like trying to learn to play a lute when you’ve only ever played a trumpet. Wildmages generally work alone. It’s even possible a Wildmage might not meet another Wildmage in his or her entire life.”
Cilarnen shook his head, obviously finding the very concept unnatural.
“What you said back there—about the City Talismans—”
“It’s why your spells don’t work very well—and why the High Mages are so powerful,” Kellen replied instantly, glad for the opening to let the boy know the truth about the Talismans. “Here, outside the City, the only thing that fuels your magic is your own personal power. Haven’t you felt weak after casting a spell?”
“Yes, but—”
“That’s why. You’re only using your own power, not the power gathered from the whole City.”
Kardus joined diem—squirming less than gracefully out through the lodge’s doorway, which had certainly not been designed for Centaurs—and the three of them began to walk toward Kardus and Cilarnen’s tent.
“But—Then—I’m not ever going to be able to use most of the spells I know,” Cilarnen said.
“Maybe,” Kellen said. “Anigrel told me that everyone has the power that fuels Magery. Non-Mages have no use for it, so the Mages figured out a way to harvest and store it.” His voice hardened. “They didn’t ask permission, and they don’t pay for what they take. That’s wrong.”
“No,” Cilarnen said, slowly. “They do pay for it—with all the spells they do for the City. The power has to come from somewhere. You said so. The Mages work hard to keep the City running—I worked hard, when I was an Entered Apprentice. But …” Now he nodded. “You’re right about one thing. They should still tell people what they’re doing. The Commons have a right to know that they’re helping the City, too.”
It was a way of looking at the matter that Kellen hadn’t considered before. And it was true that the City was a pleasant place to live—if you followed the rules.
“So you’d have the High Mages tell the people what they were doing?” he asked curiously. “What if someone didn’t want to have his power harvested?”
He held his breath, waiting for Cilarnen’s answer. Let it be the right one.
“It’s just another tax—Light knows there are taxes enough,” Cilarnen said, shrugging dismissively. “If they didn’t want to pay this one, they’d have to leave, I suppose, because there’s no way to live in the City without getting the benefit of the spells and it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else to let them stay. A season mucking out stalls in one of the Delfier villages—like I did in Stonehearth—might convince them they’d rather pay the tax. Or they might like to farm, and not pay it. But either way, they’d know what was being taken, and whether or not they were willing to pay it. It’s not right to take it without telling them.”
Kellen let out his breath in a long sigh. The right answer indeed—and a number of ideas that would have the entire High Council in spinning fits if it ever heard them.
“There may be a solution to your problem of a power source. But we’ll need to solve Idalia’s first,” Kellen said.
They’d reached the tent—and just in time. The snow, which had been falling in a thin powdery dust, began to thicken, and Kellen felt the sting of sleet.
“Sleep well,” he said, and turned away.
KELLEN and his troop spent the following day with Vestakia at the further cavern as she attempted to communicate with the Crystal Spiders.
It was frustrating work—not because the gentle otherworldly creatures weren’t willing to help, but because they were. Vestakia’s mind was flooded with images and information she found it impossible to interpret.
“I think,” she said, sitting up in the midst of a ring of softly glowing Spiders, “that they do sense their kindred in other caverns. And I think there is at least one more cavern of Shadowed Elves—if I am understanding anything they tell me! But, Kellen—if they never leave their caverns, how can they tell me where the cavern is?”
Kellen shook his head. There had to be a solution to that riddle, if they could only find it. “At least we know we need to keep looking.”
“Maybe there’s something, well, distinctive enough that someone could recognize it if I could describe it,” Vestakia said. “But I’m getting a proper headache seeing the world through eight eyes instead of two!”
“Then you need to stop. Tell them you’ll come back and talk with them again.” Maps. We need maps showing where all the caves beneath the Elven Lands are. Too bad there aren’t any.
Vestakia sighed and lay back down. The Crystal Spiders moved over her in a softly-glowing wave, and then retreated once she had spoken to them, moving quickly into the far depths of the cave. She rolled to her knees. Kellen turned away, and Isinwen moved forward to help her to her feet.
He mustn’t think about her. Mustn’t care if she was cold, or tired … because if he did, he’d never be able to stop. And he’d never stop with just thinking.
“I know what you’re going to ask.”
Jermayan waited.
The remains of Ancaladar’s breakfast—Vestakia had brought the bullock up before she’d left for the cavern—was nothing more than a few smears of blood upon the snow; the dragon was a tidy eater. Keeping him fed had not precisely been a strain on the army’s resources, but it had required careful planning. Still, a promise was a promise: Ancaladar had not had to hunt for himself since he had accepted Jermayan’s Bond.
Last night, after the Wildmages’ conclave, Jermayan had come here, to the place he and Ancaladar often shared. It was an ice-pavilion, similar to others he had built, but large enough to hold Ancaladar comfortably and shelter the dragon from the wind and the snow. There was even stabling for Valdien, for Ancaladar’s “pavilion” was a certain distance from the camp, almost at the edge of the forest, to discourage idle sightseers.
Jermayan had explained everything that had taken place. Perhaps it was only an act of courtesy—Jermayan was still not entirely certain how much of his thoughts the dragon shared—but he found that talking matters over with his friend helped to clear his own mind.
He had asked for nothing.
“Ask, then.” The dragon was coiled half-out of his pavilion, his sinuous neck curved about so that his jaw rested on the snow just before his foreclaws.
Jermayan swung down from Valdien’s saddle and walked forward.
“Will you—will we—join in this link Idalia proposes? I do not yet understand how it may be done, but she seems to feel it can be learned. And Cilarnen is anxious to teach it.”
“I could say no,” Ancaladar said.
Jermayan knew that the dragon’s greatest fear—bordering on paranoia—was to be taken—used as nothing more than a res
ervoir of magical power.
He knelt in the snow by Ancaladar’s head.
“Beloved, I will let no one harm you. At least … it is a risk all will share equally. Every Wildmage. Without our power, I do not think it will succeed. And nothing can destroy our Bond.”
“If I said no, you could force me,” Ancaladar said, very softly. “You could take what you needed.”
“But I would not,” Jermayan said, reaching out to stroke Ancaladar’s head. “I would only ask for your help. I would never take what you did not wish to give.”
Ancaladar hesitated. Jermayan could feel the dragon’s fear.
And felt it begin to ebb.
“Yes,” Ancaladar said at last. “We will share in the spells.”
WHEN Kellen and his party reached the camp again, there was good news awaiting them.
“We’ve solved the problem—the first of them, anyway,” Idalia said. There’d been a message waiting at the horse-lines for Kellen to come and see her, and he’d finally tracked her down in her tent.
He was surprised to see Cilarnen there as well. He was lying on Idalia’s bedroll, a compress over his eyes.
Idalia shrugged, following Kellen’s look. “Oh, he doesn’t want any spells cast on him. But he doesn’t have any objection to casting spells on someone else. So after we spent the morning getting nowhere, Kardus finally got the idea of asking him about the other spells he knew. He cast something called Knowing on Atroist—all with permission, of course—and put the spell directly into Atroist’s mind. Atroist got a hideous headache and Cilarnen passed out. But then Atroist knew exactly how the High Mages perform the Linking Spell, and was able to explain it to the rest of us. We’re going to try it tonight, now that Kindolhinadetil’s mirror has arrived. We don’t need the link for that, but it’s a good idea to practice it. And how was your day?”
“Less exciting,” Kellen said, blinking at Idalia’s matter-of-fact summary. If you had asked him two days ago just how likely this was—a High Mage casting a spell on a Wildmage!—he’d have assumed the questioner was mad to even think the idea. “Vestakia says the Crystal Spiders think there’s at least one more cavern to clear, but she’s having trouble finding out just where it is.” He was still trying to wrap his mind about what she’d just told him so blithely. “Idalia, Cilarnen—Atroist—something could have gone wrong,” he finished inadequately.
“They both knew the risks. We all discussed them before we tried it. They both agreed. It was probably more dangerous to Atroist, all things considered.”
Considering, Kellen thought, that Cilarnen was a less than half-trained High Mage, it was entirely possible that he could have killed Atroist.
But this was war. And they had both known the risks.
“And it did work.” Cilarnen’s voice sounded faint, and very hoarse. He sat up with a stifled groan, running his fingers through his hair, and blinked owlishly at Kellen. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and he looked as if he’d just recovered from a high fever. “And I didn’t kill anybody.”
“No,” Idalia said. “And you certainly put on quite a show.”
Kellen wondered what it was Cilarnen had done, exactly.
“I don’t think I could light a candle right now,” Cilarnen said. He felt around himself, obviously searching for something.
“It’s over here,” Idalia said, indicating the table. “I had one of the Healers—not a Wildmage—bring it, after you dropped it. I didn’t know if a Wildmage’s handling it would make a difference.”
“Neither do I.” Cilarnen shrugged. “It’s just a tool, but no one but one of the Mages would ever touch one in the City.”
Kellen glanced over at the table. Lying on it was a crudely finished length of ashwood.
A Mageborn’s Wand.
He shifted to spell-sight—it was truly second-nature now—and saw the residue of power eddying through the wood, fading slowly. The more it was used, the more attuned to its owner it would become—or so Mage-theory held.
“You’ll want to finish that,” he heard himself saying. “Artenel can loan you the tools, and give you the proper grade of silver for the caps. You’ll need a belt-case, too.”
“Just as if I were a proper Mage,” Cilarnen said, a note of bitter humor in his voice. “Now all I lack is a dozen other tools, a library of spellbooks, and a lifetime of training.”
“‘It is not meet to harvest the fruit before the seed is planted,’” Kellen said, quoting Master Belesharon once more.
“In other words, the future will take care of itself,” Idalia said. “And I wouldn’t be too surprised to find that some of those things could come into our hands if we need them. Now, Kellen, we’ll need your help with this spell—because I want you to be my anchor for the big one. For that, we’ll need somebody keeping an eye on things in case … well, just in case. And no one better than a Knight-Mage. So you’ll need the practice as well.”
Kellen nodded. He wasn’t looking forward to any of this—if someone was going to poke a stick into the hornet’s nest, he’d much prefer it to be him rather than Idalia. But he had to admit that her logic was sound: a Wildmage would be better at a spell of pure Wildmagery than a Knight-Mage. And a Wildmage raised in Armethalieh would have the best chance of all.
“Lady Idalia, would it be permissible for me to watch?” Cilarnen asked. “Not if it is forbidden, of course,” he added quickly.
“On the condition that you stop calling me ‘Lady Idalia.’ It’s just ‘Idalia.’ And if you think you can walk that far,” Idalia said. “Who knows? We might make a Wildmage of you yet,” she added with a smile.
“The Eternal Light forfend,” Cilarnen replied, but for the first time, it sounded as if he had a bit of a sense of humor about it. He got carefully to his feet and tucked his wand securely inside his tunic.
IT would have been impossible to gather the Wildmages together properly for this work in any of the structures within the camp except the main dining tent, and that would have inconvenienced far too many people, since they would need it for at least two days. So Jermayan and Ancaladar had once again created an ice-pavilion for the work, as they had for Atroist’s Calling Spell—only this one was several times larger than that had been.
The ice-pavilion was circular, and glowed with Coldfire—an eerie sight in the dusk. Its polished surface—a faithful, though enormous, replica of a traditional Elven campaigning tent—was already crusted white with new-fallen snow.
Ancaladar was coiled around it. Kellen guessed from Cilarnen’s lack of reaction that he’d already seen Ancaladar for the first time earlier today.
“Ah,” the dragon said. “The young Mage who makes such lovely colors. Come to see what the Wildmages will do with the fruits of your wisdom?”
“Indeed I have,” Cilarnen said. His voice shook only slightly—though with cold, weariness—or astonishment at conversing with a dragon—it was difficult to say. “But I think I can safely promise not to learn anything.”
Ancaladar laughed. “Go inside before you freeze. And behold the wonders of Kindolhinadetil’s mirror.”
The three of them stepped inside. Some of the other Wildmages were already present Jermayan had crafted a bench that ran all the way around the edge of the pavilion, and Cilarnen moved toward it quickly.
Idalia had seen the mirror before. Kellen hadn’t. He stared.
It was a perfect oval as tall as he was, set in a wide standing frame. The frame was of a light-colored fine-grained wood, intricately carved.
But it was hard to say with what. Each time Kellen was certain he had identified an object depicted in the frame and the base—fruit and flower, tree and bird—it seemed to change. Was that a deer? Or a wolf? Or was it a vine?
He gave up.
But then he looked directly at the mirror.
It was made of a single thick pane of flawless rock-crystal backed with Elvensilver, and the reflection it gave back was utterly perfect.
Kellen hadn’t had much ti
me for mirrors lately. There’d been none in the Wildwood, and he’d paid little attention to the small ones in the house in Sentarshadeen. Since then, well … he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a mirror.
Was this him?
He faced a stranger. A man … and one he wouldn’t want to face in battle, either. He towered over Cilarnen—even after several moonturns working in Stonehearth’s stables, you’d never mistake Cilarnen for anything but an Armethaliehan Mageborn. Kellen …
They’d call me a High Reaches barbarian trying to pass for an Elf, he thought with an inward grin. Well, if he wanted nothing to do with the City, the City had obviously returned the favor.
He turned away from the mirror.
“It’s certainly impressive,” he said.
“It will serve our needs,” Jermayan said with a dismissive shrug.
“The rest of you have had all day to figure out this spell,” Kellen said, as more Wildmages began to arrive. “Now you’re going to have to explain it to me.”
Twenty-six
Against All Odds
Well, at heart it seems to be most like a Healing Spell that you stop in the middle,” Idalia said. “And no actual Healing takes place. Everyone who uses magic has personal shields—with every gift comes an equal weakness. Wildmages can sense more of the world around them than non-Wildmages—without shields to block that out sometimes, we’d drown in all that information. Or be far more vulnerable to spells cast against us than non-Wildmages. Or just to the random influences of magical Otherfolk, even if they didn’t mean to affect us. You don’t have that problem as much as we do—”
“But then, I can’t cast spells as well,” Kellen finished.
“Right,” Idalia said, pleased that he understood the matter so easily and seemed willing—so far—to go along with her plans. “A natural balance. So we need to drop those shields, blend our powers … and act as one.”
To Light a Candle Page 84
