To Light a Candle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “It is an excellent plan,” Lycaelon said. “The Council will approve it. It must. And, Anigrel … I hesitate to ask this of you, but you must lead the Circle that charges the City-Wards. I can trust no one but you with a task so vital to our welfare. You must choose the Mages for this Circle as well—and let as many of them be Magewardens as possible.”

  “It is a heavy burden you lay upon me, Father,” Anigrel said gravely. “But I will try to bear it well—for the good of the City.”

  THE day of the Working dawned pale and overcast—and far too cold to snow. Kellen noted that fact almost automatically—and turned over and went back to sleep.

  A few hours later he was roused—all the way from sleep this time—by the ringing of his bell-rope.

  He was on his feet without being quite awake, sword in hand, wondering vaguely why he’d slept in his clothes. He unpegged the tent flap to find Kharren standing before him.

  “Knight-Mage,” she said courteously, “a last duty to discharge as alakomentai before you may leave your command to Isinwen. Adaerion gathers the first of the subcommanders in his pavilion in half an hour.”

  “I shall be there,” Kellen promised, bowing.

  He closed the tent flap again and glanced over at Cilarnen. Let him sleep as long as he could. Kellen added his own blankets to the ones already covering Cilarnen.

  Kellen had just time to thrust his feet into his boots, comb his hair straight and tie it back—no time for braiding—and buckle on his weapons before running all the way to Adaerion’s pavilion.

  The day was just as cold as he’d suspected it would be.

  In Adaerion’s pavilion he, along with a dozen other subcommanders, gave his sworn oath, upon his honor, that he and all his command agreed to share in the price for the Work to come.

  Afterward, Kellen felt both relieved and nervous. All the duties and responsibilities of the army had been lifted from him. All that remained was his service to the Wild Magic.

  None of the Wildmages was certain-of what would happen when the spell was cast. It could be as safe as a scrying spell—or as dangerous as the assault on the Black Cairn. There was no way to know except by doing.

  What if this is a trap? Cilarnen is innocent—I truly believe that—but what if this is still a trap? The Demons have given us information before, knowing we would have no choice but to act upon it. If They arranged for him to find out what he did, They would also know we would do everything in our power to investigate further. Making ourselves vulnerable …

  And just as with the discovery of the Shadowed Elves, there was no way to turn away from such a task. If what Cilarnen said was true—if there was any possibility that it was true—they had to know.

  They had to do exactly what they were doing now.

  Someday, Kellen vowed grimly, we will no longer dance to your piping, Shadow Mountain. Someday WE will choose the battlefield—and the battle. And we will win.

  TWO hours before noon, Redhelwar addressed the army on the drill field just outside the camp. He spoke slowly, pausing between each sentence, for his words must be relayed to the edges of the command.

  He spoke of simple things—the drought that was past, the depth of the winter snows, the glory of the Springtide to come. He did not speak of what the Wildmages were about to do. He did not need to.

  “We shall not go down to the Dark consenting,” he said at last. “We shall fight. Who will share with me in the price of the spell?”

  It was now that the senior and allied commanders were to have come forward, bringing the oaths of their commands.

  Instead, something unrehearsed, unplanned, and unprecedented—especially in the lives of the Elves, who lived by ritual and ceremony—happened.

  The entire army—every Elf, every Centaur, every human there—shouted out their consent, over and over again.

  “LIGHT deliver us,” Cilarnen said softly, listening to the roar of the army. He and Kellen had remained behind to watch; Kellen had wanted to hear Redhelwar’s speech. They were mounted on their destriers a few hundred yards from where the army had gathered, for they would need to be inside the ice-pavilion before those who were sharing in the spell-price surrounded it.

  “Consent—asked and granted,” Kellen said. “Without it we are thieves, and the Wild Magic will turn against us. Come on. It’s time to go.”

  THEY rode Anganil and Firareth all the way to the pavilion—those of the army sharing in the price would follow on foot—and when they got there Kellen dismounted, looping his reins back over Firareth’s saddle and motioning for Cilarnen to do the same.

  “Home,” he said to the destrier, pointing back at the camp and giving him an encouraging slap on the rump. “You, too,” he said to Anganil.

  Both animals trotted off toward the camp.

  “They’ll go where they’re used to being fed,” Kellen said, noting Cilarnen’s look of disbelief. “The handlers will bring them in and take care of them. There’s no magic involved. It’s one of the commands they know.”

  “Like ‘dump your rider in the snow’?” Cilarnen suggested, with a faint nervous smile.

  “If we’re both still alive tomorrow, maybe there will be time to start training you to make use of what Anganil knows,” Kellen said absently. “I doubt you’ll ever be a knight, but you have the makings of a fine rider.”

  They walked toward the pavilion, each occupied by his own sober thoughts.

  The other Wildmages were already gathered here, though not all were yet inside. The Mountainfolk undoubtedly thought this was a fine calm day—even warm—and the Lostlanders were used to even harsher conditions. Some were gathered around a brazier, brewing their thick black tea and talking quietly. Others paced back and forth, their heavy furs dark against the snow.

  It was the calm before battle.

  Ancaladar was coiled around the pavilion, as immobile as if he’d decided to become a part of it. The dragon raised his head as they approached, his large golden eyes fixed on Cilarnen.

  “This should be interesting,” Ancaladar commented, lowering his head again.

  They went inside. Idalia was standing near the mirror, talking intently to Jermayan. She looked up as Kellen entered.

  And saw Cilarnen.

  Last night Kellen had told Cilarnen he was saving all his arguments for Idalia. Now he wondered if arguing was going to be good enough. Idalia walked over to them.

  “Good morning, Kellen. Have you decided to murder Cilarnen after all, or is there another reason he’s here?” Her violet eyes flashed dangerously. She knew—they all knew—of Cilarnen’s particular sensitivity to the Wild Magic. This was the last place he should be.

  “He believes he has a good reason to stand in the Circle with us. I’ve heard his reasons, and I agree,” Kellen said, matching bluntness with bluntness. “I’ve told him it may kill him. He has still chosen to come.”

  “Cilarnen—” Idalia began.

  “Idalia,” Kellen said gently. “No one is asking your permission.”

  Idalia stared at Kellen as if seeing him for the very first time.

  Jermayan appeared at Idalia’s side. Even in plain sight, even in a crowd of people, the Elven Mage could appear and disappear with a silent grace that owed nothing to magic.

  “To know these reasons would make good hearing,” Jermayan said quietly, putting a hand on Idalia’s arm.

  “It’s a question,” Kellen said to Cilarnen, when Cilarnen said nothing. Keyed-up as he was, Cilarnen might not have understood, and Jermayan was being very polite. “Answer it or not as you choose.”

  “I think …” Cilarnen faltered to a stop and started again. “The Thing in Stonehearth saw something in me. Something that made it confuse me with Kellen. I … need to be here. To help, if I can.”

  There was another silence. Idalia looked from Cilarnen to Kellen, and back again. At last she nodded—not permitting, but accepting. “As Kellen says, it’s your choice.”

  “Stand where you like,” Kellen
said to Cilarnen. “I don’t think it will matter.”

  “I’ll want you in the center with me, Kellen,” Idalia said. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  She took his arm and walked with him over to the space before Kindolhinadetil’s mirror. Her stave leaned against it. There was now an iron brazier set before it—one of the largest the Elves possessed—filled with pieces of namanar wood. On a square of cloth beside it lay a small herb bundle that would also be needed.

  “You’ve grown up, little brother. I’m glad,” Idalia said.

  “You always knew I would,” Kellen pointed out. “And I’ve had good teachers, and better examples.” Did she think he’d grown up because he’d argued with her? he wondered. Or because he hadn’t?

  “The best, I hope. Now. I’ll stand here. You’ll stand behind me. You’ll see what I See—everyone will, I think, just like a regular scrying spell, but if this spell goes the way I think, I’m the only one who will Know whatever there is to know. But you should be able to sense how the spell is running, and … interfere, if it becomes necessary.”

  And hope the Wild Magic shows me what I need to do, Kellen thought soberly.

  SOON all the Wildmages had moved into the pavilion, and the army had moved into position outside.

  Redhelwar stepped through the opening, and bowed to Idalia.

  Idalia returned the salute gravely.

  “Today we will attempt to see beyond the wards of the City of a Thousand Bells, called Armethalieh, and know what takes place within her walls,” Idalia announced formally. “Who will share with me the price of the Working?”

  “The army and its allies will share in the price of the Working, Wildmage Idalia,” Redhelwar said. “In token, I bring this.”

  He held out his hand. Resting upon the palm was a tiny circlet: a band made of three strands of Redhelwar’s hair, intricately braided into an endless ring.

  “I accept your oath and your gift,” Idalia said, taking the ring. “May the Gods of the Wild Magic favor us this day.”

  “Leaf and Star will that it be so,” Redhelwar answered, bowing and retreating from the tent.

  Idalia returned to the center and lit the brazier. As the ghostwood began to kindle, she took her staff and began to walk around the outer edge of the group of Wildmages, drawing a line in the beaten snow.

  SHE refused to let herself think beyond each moment. There was one last reason why she was the only possible person to be the caster of this spell: all her prices were now paid, save for one. For any other, the Mageprice for a spell such as this would surely be heavy.

  She returned to her place in the center of the circle, between Kellen and the brazier. He stood as calmly as if he were already in deep trance, as alertly as if he might be called upon to fight at any moment.

  Waiting.

  She’d said he’d grown up, and he had. Whatever past trouble there had been between him and Cilarnen, it was over now. He no longer needed her—he might still value her opinion, but he would never again depend on it instead of his own. The work of bringing him to adulthood—and vital work it had been—was done.

  If disaster struck, those she loved—and who loved her—would survive.

  Idalia knelt and took up the bundle of dried herbs and the ring of hair. She slipped her dagger from her belt and scored a long line down her palm, then clutched the herbs and hair in that hand tightly, moistening both with her blood.

  Then she cast them onto the brazier of burning wood.

  The smoke coiling upward changed color abruptly, and she felt the shimmer as the dome of protection rose around them all, expanding outward to enfold the army as well.

  The Link formed, the Power of the assembled-Wildmages joining together, becoming one, becoming hers. She felt the spell uncoil within her as she inhaled the smoke.

  She reached out toward the mirror.

  Show me what I need to See: Tell me what I need to Know.

  It glowed bright as the moon, growing larger and larger until it was all there was.

  SHE was in the City.

  Not now—but then. What she saw was in the past For a moment she was puzzled, then realized she must need to See this as well.

  The Temple of the Light. An Adoption ceremony. The spell let her Know the meaning of everything she Saw, and so she knew that what she saw was Anigrel being adopted into House Tavadon, and that later this same day he would be appointed to the Mage Council and take Volpiril’s seat.

  She knew that Breulin and Isas had been forced to resign.

  She knew that Anigrel was Cilarnen’s Master Raellan.

  There is no conspiracy. There never was. Anigrel started it all—

  With dreamlike swiftness, the hours and days of Anigrel’s life unfolded to her: the formation of the Magewardens and the Commons Wardens—the network of spies to inform upon the people of Armethalieh and sow terror among them. Every thread of unholy Darkness woven through the golden fabric of the City was spun from Anigrel’s hands.

  She watched as he murdered Lord Vilmos.

  And she saw … she saw …

  DEEP in the darkness of the World Without Sun, Savilla came out of her entrancement with a strangled cry of rage, though it was long before the proper time for her Rising.

  Someone was tampering with her slave.

  She felt it, through the soul-deep link she shared with her Mage-man.

  The festering sickness of the Light approached him.

  They will not!

  WITH the fresh horrors of not one, but two murders to convince them—and not merely murders of Mageborn, but of members of the Mage Council itself—High Mage Anigrel’s proposals for special, dedicated, highly secure groups of Mages to handle the routine magick of the City had passed by unanimous Council vote.

  No one had suggested filling the empty Council seats. No one had dared. They were beginning to learn—slowly, but they were learning—that to disagree with any of Anigrel’s proposals could well be seen as a sign of sympathy with the burgeoning Wildmage Menace.

  And certainly there was no one better than the Chief Magewarden to see to the security of the City-Wards themselves.

  Tonight his plans would bear their first fruits. Tonight he and highly loyal acolytes would begin to change the Wards surrounding the City. And soon …

  Soon the City-wards would keep out only what Anigrel wanted kept out.

  The Circle was assembled. The hour was correct. The braziers were lit, and the air was thick with the proper incense—a compound Anigrel had crafted personally. The nine Mages of the Points of the Light began to draw the elaborate sigils, chanting out the spell as they did so, while Anigrel and the remaining three sang the complex antiphon. The Great Sword warmed in his hands; soon it would be time to draw the first of the Seals …

  IDALIA watched in sick horror. It was worse than she had imagined—worse than anyone had feared. Anigrel was the Demons’ creature—had been for years. And now he’d managed to reach a position where he could strip away Armethalieh’s defenses—and let the Demons in.

  He was going to give them the City.

  And all she could do was watch.

  SAVILLA stood naked in her ivory chamber. The walls were spattered with blood, and the remains of half-a-dozen dismembered slaves lay scattered about, for she’d had no time to be neat or elegant. The obsidian bowl was filled to overflowing with hot fresh blood, and more pooled on the ebony table and ran down its legs to the floor.

  Her Mage-man was doing his City-magic—that made everything much easier. She could touch what Overlooked him.

  Wildmages.

  Savilla’s fury grew until it nearly choked her. How dare they meddle in her plans?

  She bared her fangs in savage glee as she tested the power of their spell and followed it to its source. They’d worked so hard and so diligently to penetrate the human city’s defenses.

  But a breech for you is a breech for me, my darlings, Savilla purred to herself in sudden delight. In their desperation, they had
made themselves vulnerable.

  She struck with all her might.

  KELLEN Saw all that Idalia Saw—they all did—but without the Knowing, it meant little to him. He let the images go, concentrating on feeling the currents of power that flowed through them all—through the ring of Wildmages into Idalia; from the army into the ring of Wildmages—searching constantly for anything out of place.

  The spark that was Cilarnen was like a bright ember; different, apart, but not wrong.

  Jermayan … another sort of difference. Not wrong.

  Kellen ignored them both.

  Then:

  “No!”

  Shouted—whispered—thought—he did not know which of these he did. But disaster—he sensed it—coming—already here—he didn’t know which.

  He reached out to Idalia. She had to end the spell.

  He was too late.

  Time seemed to slow. The surface of the mirror faded to darkness, and bowed outward as if its surface were not crystal, but oil. It reached for Idalia.

  If it touched her, they would all die.

  HE was sure they all felt they were doing something—even Kardus was staring into the mirror as if he could see something other than the reflections of Idalia and Kellen and everyone else here standing around in a circle. All Cilarnen knew was that the ice-pavilion was filled with smoke—very little of it was escaping through the smoke-hole in the roof—and it made him want to cough.

  And that he’d never been so uncomfortable in his life.

  It was like when he’d handled Wirance’s Books—but worse.

  It was like being terrified—only his mind wasn’t terrified at all. His mind could see no reason for fear standing in a smoke-filled house made of ice.