1 The Outstretched Shadow.3 (64 page)

 "Perhaps you'd better come and sit down and tell me all about your day," she said. "Don't leave anything out just because you think I might have heard it elsewhere."

 Kellen sat down beside her and told her about meeting Sandalon and then Ashaniel. He told her what Ashaniel had told him—that there had been drought since spring, that it had begun when the spring rains failed to arrive, and nothing the Elves could do could end it. He told her how tinder-dry the forest was, and traced for her (as well as he could remember) the territory affected, in all directions, as far as the Elves themselves knew it.

 Idalia listened intently, and with growing worry of her own. It was clear that although she had heard some of this from other sources, she had not heard the whole, and that what she had heard had only served to increase her concern.

 "And she asked if you'd help. I said you would—I said I'd ask at least, and that I'd try—was that all right?" Kellen finished anxiously.

 "Of course it was," Idalia said absently, patting his knee. "I'll do what I can, and by that, I mean I will try everything to help them. We both will. If Sentarshadeen should fall…" She left the sentence unfinished, gazing off into space, her mind obviously elsewhere. "Go to bed, Kellen. You've had a long day, and tomorrow will be just as long."

 It wasn't the dismissal of an adult to a child; it was said in a tone of comradely kindness, a gentle reminder that the excitement of being in this amazing place would carry him only so long until it ran out and left him staring exhaustedly into space.

 It was hard to remember with all that had happened since then, but this morning Kellen had been on the road, and had gotten up before dawn to feed and water the animals before the day's ride. Since then he'd spent much of the day walking all over Sentarshadeen with Sandalon, so even though it was only just a little while after sunset, he realized that Idalia was right. He was tired, and going to bed actually seemed like a good idea.

 A very good idea, in fact. Idalia had been wiser than he, to spend the afternoon and evening here, quietly, resting.

 "You're right, as usual," he said, and found himself yawning. "Very right," he added, and took her hand for a moment, giving it a quick squeeze before he got up. She looked surprised, then touched, and squeezed her hand back.

 The lamps in his room had also been lit, and his Mountain Trader clothes were folded neatly on the bed, cleaned and brushed, just as Idalia had said. Even his boots had been polished.

 A quick inspection of the drawers and cabinets as he put away the clothes revealed that Idalia had stowed away the rest of his gear, and someone had made him a gift of a few more sets of Elven guest-clothes, including a dark blue night-robe of some weaving that was as soft as fur. Kellen removed his Palace-clothes and slipped it on, marveling once more at the simple perfection the Elves brought to everything they did.

 There was a bowl of fruit and a slender carafe of juice on the table beside his bed, and on the small desk beside the door, his copies of the three Books of the Wild Magic were stacked neatly. The bed was turned back, and soft linen sheets gleamed invitingly. He hadn't slept in a bed this fine since he'd left the City.

 But even tired as he was, Kellen realized that he wasn't quite ready to sleep. He picked up The Book of Moon and the desk-lantern and went over to the window seat, opening the windows to the cool of the night. He came back and quenched the other lanterns, so that the room was in darkness, the only light coming from the lamp beside the book and the gentle radiance of the city's many-colored lanterns spilling in through the window. He set the lamp carefully on the sill and settled down to read.

 Simple spells of seeing and finding and knowing: most of the spells of the Wild Magic were contained in The Book of Moons, the first of the three Books—it was the art and craft of using and adapting them, the philosophy behind them, that were held in The Book of Sun and The Book of Stars. You could start to practice the Wild Magic within minutes of picking up the Books, but it would take you a lifetime to understand it. He'd barely begun.

 His thoughts drifted away from the Book in his hands as he gazed out through his window into the lighted city below. Standing in the Low Market in Armethalieh, holding this Book in his hands for the first time, could he have ever imagined he would be here? Could he even have imagined this place existed?

 Standing outside the Delfier Gate, hearing it barred behind him forever, would he have thought it was worth Banishment to come here and see what he had seen?

 Yes. But not worth all the lives of those people the High Council is going to make miserable by annexing their lands just to try to get at me.

 That's the problem, really— I don't mind paying the price, but is it fair that another price should be extracted from people who don't even know me?

 No. Not if the Wild Magic was involved. The Wild Magic could ask you to pay any price it chose, up to and including your own life, but it would never, never, ask you to pay another's life. You could not pay what you did not own, not in the Wild Magic.

 But he hadn't asked to come here. He hadn't made any bargains with Wild Magic. So was their involvement due to Wild Magic, or was it only coincidence?

 Or did Father plan to annex the Wildwood all along?

 It was possible. It was more than possible. In retrospect, Kellen now recognized the seeds of greed and avarice in his father, a desperate need to be numbered among the great Arch-Mages. Perhaps, just as Idalia had said, Kellen's defection was only the excuse, not the cause.

 He hoped so. All the grief and pain for others that had been and was being unleashed hung heavily on his heart.

 And this strange drought, this dangerous weather—he wondered if the reason Idalia had brought them here was part of another price, for she surely hadn't been willing to come. He knew the Wild Magic was powerful, but he'd still barely begun to learn about it. Could it truly be powerful enough to bring an end to this terrible drought in time?

 And if it was, what would be the price of that? And who would pay it?

The City Never Sleeps

 LYCAELON TAVADON PACED irritably behind his throne in the Council Chamber, waiting for the twelve to arrive. This meeting was not of his calling, and he did not expect it to go well.

 The news his agents had brought him over the last sennights had not been good. It had, in fact, been a catalogue of disasters, each more baffling than the last.

 The Scouring Hunt had been called up and sent forth—at great cost to the Mages and their stores of hoarded energy. A handpicked troop of Militia and Lawspeakers had ridden out ahead—though the Hunt would overtake them and finish its cleansing work days before they arrived—to bring news of Armethalieh's will to its newly annexed dominions, stewards to govern them and assessors and tax gatherers to make sure that the crofts and villages were smoothly integrated into the great family of Armethaliehan lands. When they arrived in lands newly humbled by such an awe-inspiring display of Mageborn power, its inhabitants should be deeply grateful to receive the City's protection.

 Even though the City itself had visited the terror of the Scouring Hunt upon them…

 And The Outlaw would be taken, run to ground, with the just vengeance of the City exacted upon him at last. But that wasn't what had happened.

 The first news to reach Lycaelon as the remains of the Scouring Hunt came limping home was the worst: The Outlaw had escaped once again. Somehow the miserable whelp had known the Hunt was coming and had fled before it, vanishing beyond the Hunt's power to follow, for by the laws of the magick that had given the Hounds life and power, they could not follow their prey outside Armethalieh's newly expanded borders.

 And just as bad, so Lycaelon discovered from the minds of the stone Hounds—for with the proper spells, a Mage of sufficient power could see and hear all that a Hound had seen and heard while Hunting—the boy had help in his wickedness, an ally whose name Lycaelon had forgotten long ago, to his cost.

 Idalia. His daughter. His treacherous Banished Wildmage daughter.

 The Outlaw Hunt sent after her years before had returned, baffled, unable to find her. How that could be, he had not then, and did not now, have any idea. But when there was no word of her for two entire years, he had assumed that she must have died in that grace period between dusk and dawn. Even near the Delfler Gate, after all, the wilderness was dangerous, and there were rogues aplenty and wild animals who could have removed her from the world before the Hunt had been released. She might even have chosen to die by her own hand, rather than face the life of an Outlaw or the terror of the Hunt.

 But clearly—so he saw now—she had not run afoul of misfortune. Somehow she had escaped, and not content with escaping justice, had obviously found some way to infect Kellen with her twisted madness from afar, and then claimed him for her own in the moment that the City's protection had been lifted from him.

 Someday, girl, I will find you both. And when I do, I swear by the Eternal Light, there will come such a reckoning as will make even your Tainted soul tremble!

 The door to the Council chamber opened, and the rest of the Council began to arrive, austere and magisterial in their grey Council robes: Breulin, Meron, Volpiril, Perizel, Lorins, Arance, Ganaret, Nagid, Vilmos, Dagan, Isas, Harith.

 A herald announced each one as he entered the room, and an Undermage servant waited beside each one's chair to serve him.

 Volpiril, Light blast him back into the Darkness, looked positively gloating at the current turn of events, though he did his best to look austere and dispassionate. Isas and Harith were, as always, Lycaelon's creatures, and would back him no matter what he did, but Breulin and Perizel both had a dangerous streak of independence, and the news from the west had been shockingly bad.

 Within the Council there were always undercurrents of alliance and jockeyings for position. And it was, disturbing though the thought might be, entirely possible for the head of the Council and the chief Arch-Mage of Armethalieh to be deposed, set aside, forced to yield his place to another. It had not been done in decades. It had never been done to a Tavadon.

 Two for him, three against him, and every member of the Council, Isas and Harith included, was both ruthless and ambitious, and each had sources of information nearly as extensive as Lycaelon's own. Each of them had reviewed—as was their right—the experiences of the golems of the Scouring Hunt… the ones that had returned, at any rate. Too many of the creatures the Council thought invincible had not returned at all, and that after The Outlaw had somehow managed to utterly destroy all the packs sent against him.

 And since this new campaign was all by Lycaelon Tavadon's orders, the Arch-Mage himself was to blame.

 "Gentlemen, shall we convene?" Lycaelon said smoothly, masking his unease as he settled into his seat.

 This was a special session of the Council, but the business of the City still had to be dealt with first, for the good of the City. Several smaller matters were raised and handled quickly and efficiently, but Lycaelon could feel the current of tension and expectation running beneath it all, like a riptide beneath the still surface of the sea. Everyone in the room knew what the true purpose of this meeting was.

 "And now, the last item on our agenda for this afternoon. The Western Campaign," Lycaelon began.

 Normally they would have heard the reports of the Mages who rode with the Militia in person, but those men were still in the field, and besides, this was too delicate a situation to discuss in the presence of anyone outside the High Council. The field Mages had reported by scrying-glass to Lord Arance, who had worked the spell that had trapped the sendings in the clear golden sphere of Farspeaking until they should be released with a counterspell.

 "Before we hear the reports of our Undermages in the west, perhaps it would be helpful to us all to review what we already know about the situation," Lycaelon said. "The people of the west have a long history of contempt for the civilizing benefits of citizenship in our City."

 "We know that those damned upstart western rabble are nothing but a pack of savages," Lord Ganaret said fiercely, leaning forward. "If you ask me, the Hunt should have scoured them all off the land!"

 "Now, Ganaret," Volpiril said smoothly. "What would there be to tax in that case? Not that there seems to be anything to tax in any case, if what we have heard so far is true. It seems that Arch-Mage Lycaelon's well-known humanitarianism has led him into trying to bring the benefits of civilization to people who simply aren't ready to receive it." High Mage Volpiril sat back in his chair, well pleased with his opening remarks. "Only the savage would destroy his own food, shelter, and belongings and flee into the wilderness rather than accept the rule of the civilized."

 "Crops burned in their fields… whole villages gone overnight… it's Demon-magic, that's what it is," muttered the aged Lord Vilmos. Vilmos, it was well known, saw Demons beneath every bed and in every chamber pot.

 "Now, Lord Vilmos, I think you go too far," Lord Isas said hastily, with a quick glance at Lycaelon.

 "Obviously The Outlaw found a way to spy upon our councils, as I warned you he would," Lycaelon interrupted, turning the discussion back in a more appropriate direction. "My lords, this squabbling ill becomes us. Surely these are only minor setbacks. The villages will accept our benevolent rule with time. Arance, let us hear the reports from the field."