There were three components to each spell of the Wild Magic: the power to cast the spell—always paid personally by the Wildmage—the power of the spell’s work—which could be shared among many—and the Mageprice, which the Wildmage alone paid.
Idalia was saying that this spell was so powerful she didn’t even have the power to cast it.
Kellen looked at Jermayan.
“Not even Ancaladar and I .I have spoken to him. And there is yet another difficulty, were I to be the one who cast this spell.”
“One, we know they’ll notice. It’s only a matter of time. There’d probably be a little more time if a human were to cast it, instead of an Elf. Two, it’s not just a spell of Seeing, but of Knowing—” Idalia said.
“Which means it would work best of all if somebody familiar with the City cast it,” Kellen finished. “Because they’d already have some idea of what they were seeing, and wouldn’t have to learn as much. That means you, me, or Cilarnen.”
“That means me,” Idalia corrected. “Cilarnen’s not a Wildmage, and you’re a Knight-Mage. I’d have the best chance of success—if I had the power to cast it.”
“What about using a keystone?” Kellen said. “Like before?”
Idalia shook her head firmly. “We thought of that, and Drelech cast the talking stones to see if that would work. It needs to be a living source.”
As the platters were cleared away, the discussion returned, once more, to the spell. Kellen could tell that the Wildmages were now covering ground they had covered before, hoping for a solution.
He could see Cilarnen and Kardus talking quietly between themselves. Jermayan was watching them alertly, probably able to hear what was being said.
At last Cilarnen—who had obviously needed to be persuaded of something—made his way into the middle of the lodge and got to his feet.
The discussion stopped.
“I am unfamiliar with your… magic,” he began hesitantly. “And I do not mean to offend. But Kardus tells me I must ask. Why do you not simply link your magic as the High Mages do?”
Kellen had rarely had the pleasure—if that was the word—of seeing his sister so completely nonplussed.
“Sit down over here,” she said. “Explain.”
Cilarnen darted an agonized glance at Kellen. Kellen did his best to look encouraging.
Cilarnen came and sat down in front of Idalia, doing his best to keep a respectable distance between them.
“In Armathalieh,” Cilarnen said, obviously searching for just the right words, “the High Mages work together, sharing their power. It is part of every Mage’s training to learn to meld the power each holds into a greater whole, for the good of the City. I had thought…” he faltered to a stop.
But it was something Wildmages never learned—never needed to learn. Because Wildmages were usually solitary creatures, who drew their power from themselves, from willing donors, and from paying their Mageprices.
“It’s true,” Kellen said, shrugging. “Anigrel told me. They may steal the citizens’ personal power with the Talismans and use that instead of their own, but they still share the power among themselves when they do a Working. Somehow.”
“Is that—” Cilarnen began, staring at Kellen.
Idalia interrupted him. “Do you know how this is done, Cilarnen? Can you tell me?”
“I know how to do it,” Cilarnen said slowly. “I can tell you what the High Mages do—but I cannot do it with you! Not with a Wildmage!” His voice held unfeigned horror.
“I promise you, Cilarnen, if we figure this out, I will only practice on another Wildmage,” Idalia said gently. “Jermayan, would Ancaladar consent to be a part of such a… sharing?”
“I do not know,” Jermayan said. His voice was troubled. “First we must see if such a thing can be learned.”
—«♦»—
BUT before even that could be attempted, it had to be explained—and there they nearly came to grief, for Cilarnen was a High Mage of the Golden City… and High Magick and Wildmagery were nothing alike.
“Prayers to the Light? Fasting? Proper incense? Huntsman strike me if I do any such thing,” a Wildmage named Kerleu growled, a few moments into Cilarnen’s explanation.
“Nor am I going to wave my hands and babble to empty air like a mad thing,” Cilarnen muttered under his breath.
“Patience, friends,” Wirance said, his hands out in a placating gesture before things could grow more heated. “We will take what we can use—but we cannot do even that if you do not let the boy finish his explanation.”
“Proper preparation. Proper intent,” Kellen said, struggling to translate between the magic he only dimly remembered—and hadn’t studied all that closely—and the one he knew. “Shielding?”
“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 them—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 h
ave 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 reservoir 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 ash wood.
To Light A Candle ou(tom-2 Page 90
