They were supporting Cilarnen between them.
“Is he all right?” Kellen asked.
“Doesn’t like to fly,” Idalia said, doing her best to suppress a smile. “I gave him a soothing cordial.”
“I am never doing that again,” Cilarnen said fervently, raising his head with an effort. His speech sounded slurred. “If we were meant to fly, there would be spells for it. I’m sorry, Ancaladar, but I am not a dragon.”
“I take no offense, Cilarnen,” the dragon said kindly. “Many people do not like to fly.”
“I am so glad you’re all right, Kellen,” Vestakia said, getting to her feet and brushing snow from her knees. She walked over to Kellen. “And I’m glad you won’t have to fight the Shadowed Elves anymore. I tried so hard to find out what you needed to know in time!”
“Well I think they’re all gone now,” he said soothingly. “But I won’t mind having a second opinion. Maybe tomorrow you can go down and look around. The caves are safe in most areas.”
He’d spoken without really looking at her, as he’d trained himself to do. But there was something … different … in her voice, and without thinking he took a good look at her face.
She looked … old.
No, not old. Haggard. Worn, feverish, her cat-gold eyes with their slitted pupils blazing bright with fever—or the edge of madness.
For an instant he forgot his Mageprice, the battle, everything but taking her away somewhere where she’d be safe—
Shalkan cleared his throat.
Kellen stepped back.
No.
“We’d better get back to camp,” he said.
VESTAKIA rode behind Cilarnen, helping him stay in the saddle. Jermayan had remained behind to oversee the unpacking—Cilarnen had refused to leave until he had been told that his precious baskets would be removed just as they were and transported to his tent untouched.
“I think I would rather travel with an entire Ladies’ Academy than one High Mage,” Idalia scolded him, once the three of them were heading in the direction of camp.
“Wildmage Idalia, you would rather not travel with a High Mage at all,” Cilarnen corrected her grandly. “We are most inconvenient.”
“But sometimes useful,” Idalia said. “As long as you don’t try to do too much.”
Cilarnen waved that aside.
Kellen thought that Cilarnen must have been doing far too much, Elemental power-source or not. He looked to be as exhausted as Vestakia did, and his condition could not be entirely accounted for by the effects of whatever Idalia had dosed him with.
He’d said the magick he was working with was dangerous—to him.
How dangerous?
And would it matter? They needed all the help they could get right now.
No matter the cost.
With a day’s warning of their arrival—and the knowledge that, on drag-onback, they would of necessity be traveling light—Kellen had been able to assemble accommodations that provided not only shelter, but clothing and other basic necessities as well. He’d set aside an entire tent for Cilarnen’s use, and helped Idalia and Vestakia settle him in. Cilarnen refused everything but a cup of heavily-sweetened tea.
“I promise you, Idalia, I’ll eat an entire roast ox in the morning, so long as Kellen doesn’t need any spells cast.”
“Not tomorrow,” Kellen said. He thought Idalia might slay him on the spot if he said anything else.
“Fine,” Cilarnen said, thrusting the empty mug back at her, and throwing himself down in his blankets. “Now go away.”
“Ah, the courtly manners of Armethalieh,” Idalia said mockingly. But her voice was gentle.
“He seems very tired,” Kellen said, when the three of them stood outside Cilarnen’s tent.
“You don’t look that much better,” Idalia said tartly. “But yes. He’s been wearing himself to a frazzle doing all that Redhelwar asks of him—and more. But let’s go somewhere warm where we can talk. I think you need to know about Nerendale.”
When the three of them were gathered together in Kellen’s tent, she told him about the night Cilarnen had seen the massacre at Nerendale.
“The Bounds stop our scrying, but they cannot keep a High Mage out. Cilarnen has been able to look into Armethalieh, and tell us what goes on there. They are raiding freely within the Bounds—after what happened at Nerendale, you may be certain Cilarnen stays away from Them, but it’s not hard to figure out from listening to the Council sessions—and he’s been doing quite a bit of that. ‘Lord’ Anigrel has convinced the Arch-Mage that Wildmages are responsible for every single death.”
“How close is Anigrel to taking down the City Wards?” Kellen asked.
“Cilarnen says they’re more complicated than Anigrel thought. He thinks they’ve been seriously tampered with, but that the Demons still can’t cross the City walls physically. He says something about the Light Itself working to Heal the wards.”
Kellen shook his head. “Maybe he can explain it to me, but I doubt it. It would be nice if it were true. If They can’t get in, They can’t get their hands on the High Mages. Or the rest of the people.”
“Unless They make them come out,” Idalia said.
“Or someone orders them to come out, the way they were ordered to go to Nerendale,” Kellen said. “But I don’t think They’ll risk doing anything in sight of the walls. As much as I loathe them, the High Mages do remember … Them. If the High Mages knew who Anigrel really served, who their real enemy was, I don’t think they’d sit by tamely and let him hand them over to Them.”
“So they’re safe—or almost safe—for now,” Idalia said. “I never thought I’d be glad of that.”
There was a jingle of bells outside the tent.
“Enter and be welcome,” Kellen said automatically.
Jermayan walked in, shaking the snow from his cloak, and settled himself beside Idalia.
“Cilarnen’s baskets reside with Cilarnen. You will have to await the morning to retrieve your medicines, Idalia, for I fear I would rather face an Enclave of Shadowed Elves than hear what I would hear did I tamper with his spellbooks.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Kellen smiled. He could imagine as well as Jermayan could what Cilarnen’s reaction would be, though it baffled Kellen what possible harm could come of just touching the volumes. It was not, after all, as if they had any innate magic—unlike, say, a Wildmage’s Three Books.
“And now,” Idalia said, breaking into his thoughts, “maybe you’d like to tell us why we’re here? Vestakia’s here because of the caverns, and she needed Jermayan to get her here, but Cilarnen isn’t going to be that much use to you as far as I can imagine here, and do you really need another Healer?”
“No,” Kellen said. “I need you to go to Sentarshadeen, and tell me if there’s anything that Cilarnen can do there. So that means you and Jermayan and Ancaladar. Of your courtesy, Jermayan.”
“It is my pleasure,” Jermayan said. He paused for a moment, sipping tea. “Redhelwar has told me all that you gave Keirasti to tell him.”
Kellen nodded, understanding the oblique remark. Idalia and Vestakia looked puzzled. Obviously Jermayan had not shared the news with them.
“I think that’s enough plain speaking for now,” Kellen said slowly. If they spoke of the matter any further here, it would be all over the camp in a matter of minutes. Tent walls were thin, and Elven ears were sharp. Even if nobody spoke of the matter openly—and the rituals of Elven politeness would ensure that—they’d still all know.
“Then let it remain so,” Jermayan agreed.
“I suppose you’ll explain things eventually,” Idalia muttered darkly.
“Tomorrow,” Jermayan promised. “Upon the wing.”
“But aren’t you going with them, Kellen?” Vestakia asked, obviously puzzled.
“Ancaladar can only carry one passenger,” Jermayan said. “And Kellen must remain to give orders to the army. If there is true need of his presence, or Cilarn
en’s, in Sentarshadeen, I will leave Idalia there and return.”
It was a hard choice, but Kellen knew it was the right one for him to have made.
“There’s just one thing I’d like you to do for me before you go,” Kellen said.
“It would be interesting to discover what that thing might be, should you wish to tell it,” Jermayan answered, both his tone and his words overly-formal to the point of subtle Elven humor.
“Build me a bridge, of your courtesy,” Kellen responded in the same vein.
Chapter Twelve
To Build a Bridge
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Kellen, Jermayan, and Ancaladar stood at the edge of the Angarussa.
Kellen had explained what he needed: a stone bridge, suitable for cavalry and heavy carts. By the time Keirasti got here, the bridge would be covered with snow and probably ice as well, so the sledgewagons should pass over it easily enough.
He’d almost thought Jermayan would refuse flat out.
“Kellen, there has never been a bridge over the Angarussa here,” the Elven Knight said, shaking his head.
Idalia had made a small sound of exasperation, throwing up her hands. “Perhaps you will tell Keirasti that, when she arrives, Jermayan. I’m sure that will impress her.”
“A bridge of ice—” Jermayan had suggested.
“Isn’t strong enough. Will melt in the spring. Won’t handle the traffic to the caverns once they’ve been turned into a fortress,” Kellen had pointed out, sounding exasperated.
“Beloved, it is time to try new things,” Ancaladar had said gently, settling the matter. “I am sure it will be a fine bridge.”
“Very well,” Jermayan said, acknowledging defeat. “I should know better than to argue with a dragon.”
“Indeed you should,” Ancaladar agreed. “Riddles are far more effective.”
THERE was an interested party of observers standing a little distance away, including Vestakia, Idalia, and Cilarnen. Jermayan walked to the very edge of the river, gazing down into the water.
The edges had begun to freeze, though it would be moonturns yet before the whole river froze again. As Kellen and Ancaladar watched, Jermayan paced back and forth through the snow, his eyes half-closed, until Kellen began to wonder if anything were ever going to happen at all.
Suddenly the air began to shimmer.
Beneath their feet, the ice creaked and groaned as it split. Kellen jumped back out of the way. The mantle of snow and ice had been pushed upward several inches in a wide fan extending several dozen yards in every direction on this side of the river, as if by something suddenly appearing beneath.
Stone began to form in the air.
At first it was like fog, and Kellen doubted his eyes. But no, it was truly there, growing outward from this side of the river, low and wide enough for two ox-carts to cross side-by-side. As the fog drifted out over the river, the parts at the near bank became solid; Kellen could see that Jermayan’s bridge was made of granite.
There was a subtle pattern of river currents etched into the stone, mimicking the currents beneath. The texturing of the stone would also keep the granite from becoming too slippery in the rain, of course; the Elves were nothing if not practical.
More fog swirled up, forming a railing along the sides of the bridge. Tall river rushes, a leaping fish silhouetted against them, here an angular river-bird—Kellen knew without being told that its long beak was meant to hold a lantern to light the bridge in the dark—there an otter, jumping up in play to snatch at a hovering dragonfly …
In moments, the fog-turned-stone had reached the far side of the river. There was another crackling and buckling of ice as it sunk stone roots deep into the earth on the far side.
Kellen regarded the result in awe.
It was a bridge that looked like … water.
But the more he gazed at it, the less it looked as though it belonged here. Unlike every other creation of the Elves’, it did not fit. It seemed as if it intruded on the landscape, instead of growing out of it. It demanded the attention immediately, instead of revealing itself slowly, in a series of unexpected yet pleasant surprises.
It was… intrusive.
Jermayan took a deep breath and opened his eyes.
Kellen turned to him and bowed, very deeply.
“I think you’ve won the argument,” he said. “A bridge does not belong here. But we need one. And it is beautiful.”
Jermayan regarded the bridge, obviously still unreconciled to it.
“Perhaps, some day, it can be swept away again,” he said.
“I believe it is time to go,” Ancaladar said.
THE flight to Sentarshadeen was short—a good thing, as the heavy weather that the Wildmages had predicted was already starting to set in. This far to the south and west, the snow was wetter and heavier than what they had been used to north of the Mystrals; even on the short flight, it caked both Idalia and Jermayan’s flying-furs, until they resembled snow-figures.
On the journey, Jermayan at last told her the contents of the message that Keirasti had brought to Redhelwar.
“Leaf and Star,” Idalia groaned, after sitting a long time in silence. “Jermayan, this is… This is the worst possible time… .”
“Yes,” Jermayan answered simply.
There was no need to say anything more.
ANCALADAR landed near the house of Leaf and Star. A curious herd of unicorns, their coats fluffed out against the cold and caked with falling snow, quickly gathered at a safe distance to observe this interesting sight.
Once they had dismounted, Jermayan quickly unbuckled the straps of Ancaladar’s flying harness. There was no point in making his friend wear the saddle any more than he had to, and there was no way of telling how long they would be staying.
“I shall go off to my den,” Ancaladar said once that had been accomplished. “Perhaps there will be … food … soon,” he added hopefully.
“I shall bring you bullocks from my herd as soon as I can,” Jermayan promised. He hefted the saddle to his shoulder; though it was comparatively light, it was bulky, and he was glad it was only a short walk to the House of Leaf and Star.
“Then I shall leave you now,” Ancaladar said. He rose to his feet and trotted away. The unicorns followed, pacing him until he took off.
Jermayan and Idalia gazed up at the House of Leaf and Star.
“At the very least, I’d say they know we’re coming,” Idalia said, hefting the strap of her medicine chest higher onto her shoulder.
THE door was opened by an Elf that Idalia could not remember having seen at the House of Leaf and Star before. Taranarya was a textile weaver—some of her designs covered the cushions and pillows in the guesthouse that had been given to Idalia and Kellen when they had first come to Sentarshadeen.
It seemed like a very long time ago.
“I See you, Taranarya,” Idalia said.
Taranarya regarded the two of them as if they had just sprouted directly out of the ground.
“We have come to see Andoreniel,” Idalia added, when Taranarya did not say anything.
It was, of course, perfectly possible—and within the scope of the complex code of Elven Manners—for Taranarya not to “see” Idalia, and simply close the door in her face. But though technically that was permissible, it very rarely happened in practice.
“I See you, Idalia,” Taranarya said at last. “I See you, Jermayan,” she added. There was a pause. “Be welcome in this house and find comfort at our hearth.” She opened the door wider and stepped back.
It was quite the most grudging welcome Idalia had ever received among the Elves, but Taranarya probably did not wish to admit there was sickness in the House of Leaf and Star—though anyone who could not guess why she was here instead of her cousin Talminonil was thick-witted at best. Talminonil had served in the House of Leaf and Star since before any of Idalia’s grandparents had met. She hoped that Talminonil was … well, that things weren’t as bad with Talminonil as they could p
ossibly be.
Taranarya conducted them to the Room of Fire and Water. By the time they’d reached it, two more servants had arrived to take their heavy outer clothing and Ancaladar’s saddle.
The Room of Fire and Water was one of the formal receiving chambers of the House of Leaf and Star, and as such, had been designed to be as much to be a work of art as simply a place where guests were welcomed. As the name implied, the room was designed to be a marriage of fire and water. At one end of the room was an enormous fireplace in the shape of a red-gold dragon, whose enormous tile wings covered the entire wall of the room. At this season, the dragon-hearth naturally contained a well-built fire, and the flames leaped and danced in the dragon’s belly.
Of course, the dragon did not bear a great deal of resemblance to an actual dragon. It was much too round and cheerful—something the Elven artisan who had designed the room was undoubtedly aware of. And real dragons certainly didn’t breathe fire, or carry furnaces in their bellies. But dragons certainly did radiate heat, just as this dragon-hearth was doing, so in that sense, the symbolism was quite accurate.
At the opposite end of the room there was a fountain, and here the room’s colors were deep vivid turquoise and violet, the intense saturated hues a perfect complement to the red-golds and vermilions that surrounded the dragon. Here, a column of water bubbled high into the air, falling back into itself and down into its catchbasin. The glittering motes of color caught within the water were tiny fish-shapes, all made of glass, for living fish would not have been at all happy living in that turbulent water.
The walls between the fountain and the hearth were covered with a mosaic—Elvenware seashells mixed with natural ones at the fountain end, glass tiles at the hearth end—in which the two sets of opposite colors reached out and blended together in perfect harmony, like a vibrant sunset.
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