The pale green faded to the dark green of the mature plant, then faded further, into black. But not the black of death. The black of a different kind of life. The green leaves turned pale silver. They still had the shape of rose leaves, but now were much larger and thicker, sized to take in all the pale winter sunlight they could, and protect their fragile blossoms from the snow and ice.
The roses that had bloomed large and deep red a moment before fell from the twining vines in a shower of silken petals, replaced by tiny perfect white blossoms the size of Jermayan’s thumbnail. They covered the now-dense vines like tiny stars.
Jermayan staggered back, leaning into Ancaladar as the spell ran its course. The jewel shapes faded from his mind, and the rapid growth of the ice roses slowed.
“See?” the dragon said. “Roses in winter. When the weather warms they will die back, but in the cold season they will bloom again. You have shaped a new thing. Proper magic for a dragon and his Bondmate.”
You made me do that, Jermayan felt like saying. But he didn’t. Only the power had come from Ancaladar. He had made the roses.
They were beautiful. They were harmless. There was nothing threatening about them.
He didn’t know why they disturbed him so.
“You’ll have to wear some sort of harness when you carry the children,” he said aloud. “We don’t want them to fall off.”
Ancaladar blew out a long gusty breath.
“Now call fire,” he said, not answering directly. “It’s important, and useful, and you need more practice. A lot more practice.”
Chapter Twelve To the Crowned Horns of the Moon
IT TOOK A fortnight to make a proper set of harness for Ancaladar. The dragon grumbled quite a bit about it, but seemed, in the end, actually pleased with the results.
Then again, it was Elven workmanship, which was never less than spectacular. He did not look like a “pack mule” as he claimed; as a matter of fact, he looked as if he had been fitted for a splendid costume of black leather and shining, sapphire-enameled metal. And there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the dragon was inordinately pleased with his appearance.
Idalia left the House of Healing after only a few days more, but she went to Jermayan’s house to live, not back to the home she’d shared with Kellen. It was as if Jermayan’s Bond with Ancaladar had eased some unshareable burden she’d been carrying—or perhaps it was only that having come so close to death, she now realized that there were things in life that should not be delayed.
Her departure left Kellen alone in the house they’d shared, but not for long. Within a day of Idalia’s departure, Kellen discovered he had mysteriously acquired an assistant, one Vertai, whose business it seemed to be to keep Kellen’s wardrobe in order, the larder stocked, simple meals available, and everything generally as tidy—or even more so—than when Kellen had shared the place with Idalia. Where this fellow had come from, Kellen had no idea; he was certainly more efficient and a lot more pleasant than any of the Tavadon servants had ever been.
In part, this might have been because Kellen rarely saw Vertai. Once he’d granted the man permission to come and go as he pleased—after consulting Jermayan, who seemed to think it was a good idea—Vertai seemed to do all his work while Kellen was at the House of Sword and Shield. It was like having a completely invisible servant, and one who managed to anticipate everything Kellen could have thought of.
Kellen had thrown himself back into his interrupted training with a vengeance. He knew that all around him important things were happening—Jermayan was learning magic, Idalia was creating weapons for the upcoming campaign against the Shadowed Elves, Andoreniel was calling up his allies and gathering the Elven army for the assault on the first of the enclaves of the Shadowed Elves—but nobody was telling him about them directly, or even asking him what he thought about them. He’d just been shunted aside, as if his opinion wasn’t worth anything.
Was it arrogant of him to think otherwise? Should he really have a place on the Elven Council, setting policy for the Nine Cities? He knew he didn’t want that. Trying to think like the Elves—trying to talk like the Elves—would drive him crazy within a sennight. Maybe less.
But still…
It doesn’t matter, Kellen told himself fiercely, standing alone in the Great Hall of the House of Sword and Shield, practicing what Master Belesharon called the “simple forms” until his muscles ached and his tunic and leggings were plastered to his body with sweat. They won’t listen to you, whether you’re right or not. JERMAYAN wouldn’t listen to you. And the Shadowed Elves DO have to be destroyed. It’s just that… we can’t be concentrating on nothing except that. Shadow Mountain is being a lot smarter now. This is a diversion. It’s an important diversion, but it’s only a diversion.
I have to find a way to make them listen.
And I have to figure out what Shadow Mountain’s REAL plan is.
Without thinking, he broke form and spun around, his sword raised to block. Master Belesharon was standing behind him, his teaching staff raised to deliver an admonitory blow to an inattentive student.
“You seemed lost in thought, young Kellen,” Master Belesharon said mildly.
“I was,” Kellen said, smiling wolfishly. But not so lost in thought that his Master could catch him out as if he were a novice.
Master Belesharon smiled in turn. “Come. Bathe. Take tea.”
When they were both immersed in the deep tub of the bathhouse—Kellen no longer even noticed having to walk through the snow to get to and from it— and a younger student had poured them both cups of dark fragrant tea, Master Belesharon broached his point with the unusual directness that Kellen had come to believe was a privilege of age among the Elvenkind.
“Soon you will hear, young Kellen, that Hyandur the trader has returned to Sentarshadeen. As you know, it was thought appropriate that he approach the City of a Thousand Bells to bring them warning that the Shadow walks the hills once more.”
Kellen considered all the appropriate things he could say, considering what he knew about Armethalieh, and what the High Council thought about Elves. “I am pleased to hear that he has returned safely,” he said at last.
“Doubtless this is because he was never permitted to enter the city, nor to deliver his message,” Master Belesharon said, his voice neutral. “The city of your birth remains unwarned, and has promised death to any of our kind that approaches its walls again.”
“That…” Makes perfect sense. Because they’re idiots. “I thank you for telling me this, Master,” Kellen said. Even though the water of the bathhouse tub was as hot as he could stand—hot enough to soothe away all the aches and bruises of a day’s hard training—he felt his muscles tense beneath the scented water. Any mention of Armethalieh was like poking at a sore tooth.
“Hyandur said further that the City of a Thousand Bells begins to expand its borders once more. They had reclaimed the Delfier Valley as he left. Perhaps they will attempt to reclaim more land. He believes there had been unrest in the city before he came, and it seemed to be of a serious nature. Two were Banished that he knows of. Perhaps more. He warned those villages he passed on his way here of the city’s plans. Word will spread.”
“Wonderful,” Kellen said with a sigh. He wondered what had changed on the Council. The last time Idalia had scryed and gotten a view of the Armethaliehan Council chambers, Lord Volpiril had pulled the City boundaries all the way back to the City walls. “At least it will take them time to reclaim all their old lands. Time and energy. And they hate all the Other Races—I’m sorry, Master—so at least we can be sure there’s no way they’ll ally themselves with Them. And I don’t think one of Them could get into Armethalieh, anyway, even if it made itself look like a human. Armethalieh’s… not a very nice place, but it’s still the City of Mages. There are Wards everywhere. No one who isn’t a citizen can pass them.”
“So if they will not aid us, at least they will not give aid to the Enemy,” Master Belesharon said.
“Unfortunate, but not the worst that could happen.”
“I suppose not,” Kellen said. But something in his own words made him feel uneasy. He ducked his head under the surface of the water, dousing himself thoroughly, and came up, sweeping his hair back out of his eyes. “I suppose I’d better go and make sure Idalia knows. Maybe she’ll be able to guess more of their plans.”
—«♦»—
THE ice storms were long past, and though the winter snows were heavy, the streets were kept clear enough so that walking—at least in cleated snow boots— wasn’t difficult. Getting off the streets, now—that meant wading through snow that was up to the knees at least, and sometimes waist-deep, but Kellen didn’t have to do that nearly as often as Jermayan did. Ancaladar was rather diffident about coming down into Sentarshadeen, where his appearance still rattled some of the inhabitants.
By now, Kellen had been to Jermayan’s house at the forest edge many times. He admired it, while having no desire to possess anything like it. He’d grown up in one of the most intimidating mansions in the largest city in the world, and even though Jermayan’s cottage could probably have fit comfortably in the suite of rooms Kellen had possessed in House Tavadon, it was still more room than Kellen wanted for himself.
Kellen crossed the arching footbridge—carefully, as the slatted wood was icy and slick—and approached the house. It was still too early for lantern-lighting time, though the lanterns stood ready and waiting, and he noted that the seashells that had hung outside the door the last time he’d been here had been replaced with a set in the shape of golden flames. He wondered why. It might be a reflection of the seasons: the lanterns outside his own house had also been changed while he was gone, and were now pale blue.
He knocked at the door.
After a moment Idalia opened it.
“Home and hearth,” she said cheerfully, the shortened form of the standard Elven greeting. “Come in, Kellen—you look half-frozen. Though if you’ve come to see Jermayan, he’s with Ancaladar. You know, I think he has finally met his match in stubbornness!”
Kellen grinned faintly at the thought; knowing Jermayan as he did, he doubted it.
“No,” Kellen said, stepping inside, and immediately sitting down to remove his outdoor boots and heavy cloak. “I came to see you.”
“Well, here I am. I’ll get you some mulled cider. I’m sure Vertai isn’t feeding you enough.”
“He’s doing fine. I’m doing fine.” He tried to think of a good way to lead into what he wanted to say, gave up, and just launched into it. “Hyandur got back from Armethalieh today,” he said, following Idalia into the kitchen.
“Oh, yes. I’d heard that. Rescued a Banished Mageborn boy and dumped him in the first Centaur village he came to.” She looked over her shoulder at him, briefly, then went on with her work. “Well, I can’t say I’ll weep any tears for him, whoever he is. I’m sure it’ll do him good to live among, ah, ‘Lesser Races.’”
Kellen smiled at the small joke. Trust Idalia to have the gossip as fast as anyone. “Why was he Banished?” Kellen asked. “Did you hear that?”
“I don’t think Hyandur knew. Maybe the boy didn’t know either. You know what the Council’s like, Kellen, especially now.” Her voice took on a flippant tone. “He probably didn’t return his books to the library on time.” She took a jug of cider from the stove where it was warming and poured a mug full, pushing it toward him.
“They’re extending the boundaries of the City lands again, too,” Kellen said, drinking. “Back to the old places. Good news for the Home Farms, anyway. There’s something to be said for getting their old weather protections back.”
“Mmm,” Idalia said. “That probably means a shift in power in the Council. I’ll try scrying tomorrow and see if I get anything, but you know scrying isn’t very reliable. I’ve been hoping to use it to help Vestakia find the enclaves of the Shadowed Elves, but I’m not sure I’ll have much luck there, either.”
“Maybe Jermayan should try,” Kellen suggested, with a half-smile.
“Oh, don’t say that to him!” Idalia begged. “He’s like a bear with a sore tooth on that particular subject. And I thought you were a difficult student!”
“I wasn’t!” Kellen protested, stung.
“You were, brother mine,” Idalia assured him. “Of course, I was trying to teach you all the wrong things in all the wrong ways—neither of our faults—but still.”
“Still,” Kellen admitted, giving in.
“So. Was that what you came to tell me?” Idalia prompted.
“I suppose,” Kellen admitted. “And to see if you knew anything more. I wish Hyandur had brought the boy with him. We could have found out what he knew.”
“And how much did you know about what was really going on in the City on the day you were Banished?” Idalia asked, smiling gently to take the sting from her words. “Besides—our presence to the contrary—the Elves don’t permit just anyone into their realm. He wasn’t a Wildmage, Kellen, if that’s what you’re thinking. Hyandur would have known that, and Wildmages have always had safe passage through the Elven lands. And the Centaurs won’t be unkind to him. They’ll just knock some sense into him.”
“I wish I could be there to see that,” Kellen said with a faint grin, holding out his mug for a refill. “I wonder which of the spoiled brats he was? I probably knew him—or of him. I can’t think of anyone that I’d feel sorry to see having to work for his keep in a Centaur village. Actually, it’s the Centaurs I feel sorry for.”
“Anyway, we’ve tried to warn the City. And it can’t be done,” Idalia said briskly. “And Hyandur carried the message about Them to every place he passed. It’s winter, so the news wouldn’t normally have traveled fast—but now that Andoreniel is calling up his levies, everyone’s going to know. And soon.” She looked off over his shoulder for a moment. “Maybe—if they haven’t closed the City to all outsiders—we can get the Selken Traders to carry them the news once the harbors are open again in the spring. If we can spare a messenger.”
He had wondered about that; and that made him think of something else. “Everyone keeps talking about ‘levies,’” Kellen said. “But just what are they?”
“Well, we leave for Ondoladeshiron in a sennight. You’ll see some of them there, though most of those who can gather that quickly are Elves. But… Centaurs, of course. The unicorns—not just the ones that live among Elves, but the Great Herds. The Wildmages will come—”
“Other Wildmages?” Kellen broke in, surprised.
“Of course,” Idalia said. “Did you think we were the only ones? And—let me see—the Mountain Folk will come early, since they have no crops to tend. The Lost Lands folk will come next, for they must put their herds in order before they can come—but they will come as fast as they can, for as Vestakia has told us, they have been bearing the brunt of the Demon raids. The Wildlanders will come last, for they must get a crop in the ground before they can send troops. We will not see them before late spring. And such Otherfolk as can aid us—they will be with us as well.”
“So many,” Kellen marveled.
“I do not know, since I haven’t seen them yet, but I suspect that all the humans the Elves will be able to call to their banners could be tucked safely behind the walls of Armethalieh—if it were empty, of course—with plenty of room left over.”
Not so very many, then, after all. Kellen didn’t know how many Centaurs there were, and though the Elves were formidable fighters, it had only—only!— been a thousand years since the Great War, and he knew from things Master Belesharon had said that the Elven population had suffered heavily during the Great War and not yet reached its former numbers.
None of the races had. Several of them had been wiped out entirely; the water-sylphs, the bearwards, the minotaurs, the firesprites. The dragons were nearly extinct—Ancaladar thought there might be others, somewhere, who, like him, had hidden and refused to Bond. How many, though, he could not even guess; they had avoided even e
ach other. Only a Bonded dragon was fertile, Kellen had discovered, and unless they could somehow coax a female dragon—if there were any left—out of hiding and into a Bond, the dragons might as well be extinct.
Humankind was reduced to a few thousands scattered over the land in far-flung villages—and the inhabitants of the Golden City, home to tens of thousands, cowering behind their walls and their tyrannical laws. The great Centaur tribes were a shadow of what they once had been. The Allies had spent everything they had to defeat the Shadow in the Great War—had turned thousands of leagues of fertile fields and forest to stony waste where nothing grew, even now— and counted themselves lucky, because they had defeated the Shadow.
Only the Shadow hadn’t been defeated.
“It has to be enough,” Kellen said bleakly.
“It will be,” Idalia said firmly. “After all, we have a dragon.”
To Light A Candle ou(tom-2 Page 40
