2 To Light A Candle.13 (100 page)

"Both Wirance and I found that his magic was of a kind neither of us knew. We tested him with the Wild Magic, and found that Wirance's Books caused him true distress where mine did not, though he could read neither Wirance's set nor mine. Yet their spells worked together well enough at Stonehearth."

"Huh," Kellen said. One more mystery. Well, given time and enough information, this one could probably be unraveled too.

He pulled off the tunic he'd grabbed at random and opened his clothes chest.

"What are you doing?" Cilarnen asked nervously.

"Getting dressed." For some reason Kellen was starting to feel like Cilarnen's much older brother. "It's almost dawn. Then the three of us—by your courtesy, Kardus Wildmage—are going to go and eat, because I didn't get much sleep and I'm hungry, and as the Mountainfolk say, 'Sleep is food, and food is sleep.' By then the day-watch of the camp should be on duty, so I'll go to Dionan or Nino-lion and see when we can see Redhelwar—the General of the Elven Army, Cilarnen, and he's the most important person here, so try to be extremely polite. The Elves set a great store by politeness. Then, when we do see him, you can tell him what you've told me, and we'll figure out what to do about it."

As he spoke, he finished dressing, and buckled on sword, dagger, and spurs. It was a little cramped with Kardus in the tent, but he managed. Quickly running a comb through his hair, he braided it into a tight club at the base of his neck, tied it with a ribbon, swung his cloak around himself, and picked up his gloves.

Cilarnen was staring at him, jaw hanging.

"You look like an Elf," he blurted, scrambling to his feet.

Kellen bit his lip. Hard. "Cilarnen, have you actually seen any Elves? I look about as much like one of them as a draft horse looks like a unicorn. Come on." He doused the lanterns and worked his way around Kardus to the door of the pavilion.

CILARNEN followed the other two out of the now-dark green tent, gasping a little as the sharp bite of the cold air. It was still black as night, for all Kellen Tavadon's talk of it being nearly dawn, and snowing—of course. At least Tavadon had listened, though Cilarnen wasn't really sure how much he understood. He had kept talking about things that had happened a thousand years ago, not about what had happened back in the village. And about Elves.

Always Elves.

Cilarnen seethed with resentment. Like any properly-raised Mageborn, Cilarnen knew about Elves. They were deceitful, they were one of the Lesser Races—

Of course—he felt a wash of confusion—Centaurs were a Lesser Race, too. And Sarlin and Kardus were Centaurs.

But they were different. They didn't make him feel quite so… unfinished.

Elves bothered him. They were so haughty, so terribly aloof.

And the Chronicles of the Light specifically said that Elvenkind had been created by the Light as a rebuke to humankind. That Elves never told the truth.

But Hyandur had been coming to tell the truth about the Demons, hadn't he?

Cilarnen felt his head begin to hurt. This was not how things were supposed to be going.

THE dining tent was bright and warm. The night watch was there, lingering over their meals before retiring to their beds. With the caverns cleared, the army, by the grace of Leaf and Star, would be granted a breathing space to heal itself before it must fight again.

Kellen caught Cilarnen gazing around himself curiously, as if he'd never been here before.

"You've been staying with the Centaurs?" he asked. That would make sense, if he'd been in Kardus's care. The Centaurs had a separate section of the camp, with everything—including their eating place—arranged to accommodate their physical requirements.

Cilarnen nodded dumbly.

"We can move one of the benches for you, Kardus," Kellen said. "But I'm afraid the table will be low."

"It is of no matter," the Centaur said kindly. "The food here is excellent." He switched his tail in anticipation.

They went and collected trays of food. Kellen noticed there were few items on Cilarnen's tray, and added more.

"Will you stop doing that?" Cilarnen demanded irritably, after Kellen put on the third dish. "I'm not that hungry."

"It's cold out there. You need to eat," Kellen said, spying a platter of honey-cakes fresh from the oven and taking several. Warm, they were delicious. Cold, both Shalkan and Firareth liked them—and he knew he'd have to make time today to get up to the Unicorn Camp to tell them the news.

Bad as it was.

"I don't need to eat," Cilarnen said pettishly. "And if I did, you couldn't make me."

"I could tie you in a knot and feed you your own feet," Kellen said, making his tone pleasant just to keep the boy off balance. He had the feeling that the more he kept Cilarnen bewildered, the better chance there would be for new ideas to sink into that too-pretty skull. "At least drink if you won't eat."

"Not if it's more boiled grass," Cilarnen said peevishly. At least he kept his voice down—not that it mattered, as the Elves could hear him perfectly well.

Kellen added a tankard of hot cider to Cilarnen's tray.

"Boiled grass"He'll drink tea in Redhelwar's pavilion if I have to strangle him.

Kellen and Kardus worked their way steadily through hearty breakfasts— Kellen, as was his usual habit, wrapping several of the honey-cakes on his plate in a cloth and tucking them away for later—while Kellen took the opportunity to catch up on news from the Wild Lands, since Kardus had come from Merryvale.

Haneida was well—Kellen was grateful to hear that, as the elderly beekeeper had refused to leave the village when the Scouring Hunt had come—

"And Master Eliron as well," Kardus said, smiling. "Still in his place, still swearing he is too old and too busy to serve as a Councilor. Most of the villagers returned to their places in the Wild Lands as soon as the new Bounds collapsed."

"And Merana? And Cormo?" Kellen asked eagerly.

Kardus bowed his head, suddenly grave. "Cormo is here. Merana… was lost upon the road, as many were."

Kellen swallowed around the sudden lump in his own throat. Lost, if Idalia had guessed right, to Demon raids. "I'm sorry." I hope she died quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Cilarnen was only picking at his food. In fact, he didn't look well at all.

But he'd seemed fine back in Kellen's pavilion. And he hadn't eaten or drunk anything Kellen hadn't. As Kellen watched, he set down his eating knife and rubbed fretfully at his eyes.

He'd mentioned having headaches back in Stonehearth.

"Look, why don't we go over to the Healers' tents and find you something for your headache?" Kellen suggested. "You'll probably feel more like eating then. And you need a clear head when you talk to Redhelwar."

Cilarnen stared at him in a combination of misery and shock.

"You look awful," Kellen said, in explanation. "Didn't they give you something for your headaches in Stonehearth?"

"Yes," Cilarnen finally—reluctantly—said. "I don't know what. It was brown. It had dream-honey in it. I took it twice a day. But I haven't had any headaches since…" His voice trailed off.

Kellen managed to keep his face still, but it took all the practice he'd had living among the Elves. What little he knew about healing-cordials he'd learned listening to Idalia, but he knew that dream-honey was powerful stuff, not used lightly.

"Well, the Healers will be able to come up with something. And this is probably just because of a weather change."

"But what if I'm losing my Gift again?" Now Cilarnen had an edge of panic in his voice. Kellen thought he knew why, and for just a moment, he felt a little sympathy. Magic, after all, was all that Cilarnen had left of his old life. And the thought that he might lose even that must make him mad with fear.

"Cilarnen," Kellen said firmly, getting to his feet. "You know much more about the High Magick than I do. You know you can't just 'lose' a Gift. The High Mages either Burn it out of your mind, or they don't. So since they didn't, no matter what happens, or what you feel, you still have it."

Cilarnen stared up at him, the same dumb fear in his eyes as a cornered hare. Kellen shook his head. This should have been the moment when he felt superior, at long last, to the too-perfect boy who was everything Kellen Tavadon should have been and wasn't. But he didn't. Oddly, all he felt was irritation. "Now come to the Healers' tent," he said gruffly, "—or be carried. It's all one to me."

BY the time they reached the Healers' tent, Cilarnen was staggering along between Kellen and Kardus mechanically and very nearly was carried there. They brought him inside the tent designated for minor injuries—a mere headache, no matter how bad, could not compare with the severity of the injuries the Healers usually treated. Cilarnen sank down on a waiting bench and leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching his knees.

Even a sennight after the battle at Ysterialpoerin, the Healers' tents were still filled with recuperating wounded, for the Wildmages could only cure so many, and the rest must be left to heal by more conventional means.

A Healer approached as soon as they entered.

"I See you, Kellen Knight-Mage."

"I See you, Healer Yatimumil," Kellen said, bowing to the Elven Healer. "Here is Cilarnen, a human High Mage. He suffers from headaches that Centaur Healers in Stonehearth were treating with a potion containing dream-honey. We thought the cause of those headaches was past, and this headache may not be of the same sort. It came on very suddenly."

Yatimumil bowed again, looking at Cilarnen critically. "Idalia is here. I will send for her. I think perhaps that a human should look into this."

A few moments later, Idalia and Vestakia entered the tent.

"So you found him," Idalia said neutrally.

"Say rather that he found me," Kellen said, grimacing.

Idalia moved toward Cilarnen.

"No," Kellen said quickly. "Don't. Kardus says that Wildmages make him uncomfortable." He shrugged. "I don't know why."

"Well, I'm not a Wildmage."

Vestakia moved forward and knelt in front of him. "Cilarnen, please look up. I need to see your eyes."

Cilarnen looked up.

Recoiled.

Tensed.

Oh, NO.

Kellen had long since stopped noticing what Vestakia looked like. She was just… Vestakia. His comrade in arms, sometimes his weapon in battle. And by now everyone in the Elven army thought of her the same way.

But when Cilarnen had looked up, he hadn't seen Vestakia. He'd seen a Demon.

He scrabbled for the knife on his belt, his face white with terror.

If he kills her—or so much as hurts her—the Elves will kill HIM.

If I don't kill him first!

Kellen dove between them, knocking Cilarnen and the bench over back-ward before anyone else had a chance to move. He measured himself full-length atop Cilarnen, one hand clasped over the wrist of the hand that held the knife— a Centaur-made blade, heavy and sharp—the other firmly clasped over Cilar-nen's mouth, lest he say words that could not be unsaid.

"I'm sorry," he said into Cilarnen's ear. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you. I didn't think she'd be here. I didn't think. Her name's Vestakia. She's a friend. Her father was one of Them, but her mother was a great Wildmage, and she worked a powerful spell, so that Vestakia would be human, and good—inside, where it counts."

Cilarnen struggled violently, but he was no match for Kellen's strength. Kellen supposed he was hurting him—one way or another—but right now he had no choice.

"I promise you that she's never hurt anyone in her life"—it was stretching the truth a bit, but certainly Vestakia had never hurt anyone Good—"and she isn't one of Them. Think. Would Kardus be standing here quietly if she were?"

Finally Cilarnen lay still, and Kellen dared to take his hand from over his mouth.

"I— But— She— But— Women can't do magick," Cilarnen sputtered irrelevantly.

Behind them both, Idalia made a noise like an exasperated cat.

Kellen plucked the knife from Cilarnen's hand and tossed it into the middle of the room, then hauled him unceremoniously to his feet, stepping back warily.

"You'll find that women can do a great number of things. Probably even High Magick, if the High Mages weren't so unreasonable about it," Kellen told him, though not as sternly as he might have. "You have a good mind, Cilarnen Volpiril. See with your own eyes, hear with your own ears, and use what you find to draw logical conclusions."

He glanced around cautiously.

Vestakia was cowering back against Idalia, looking stricken. Kellen looked away quickly.

Kardus picked up the discarded knife and moved to stand beside Vestakia and Idalia.

"It is true," he said. "She is a daughter of the Light. I will prove it to you now."

From one of the pouches at his belt he removed a short coil of shining white rope. Kellen recognized what it was instantly. Unicorn hair, braided into a thin rope.

"Child, I beg you, of your courtesy. He has seen friends die at Their hands," Kardus said to Vestakia.

Tears welled up in Vestakia's eyes. She held out her arm, pushing the cuff of her tunic back to expose the skin.

Slowly and deliberately, Kardus wound the length of rope around her arm.

Kellen turned away. He could not watch. How many times did Vestakia have to prove herself? Instead, he watched Cilamen.

Cilarnen was staring at Kardus and Vestakia intently. At last he moved forward slowly, stepping over the fallen bench.

Kellen forced himself to turn to keep Cilarnen in sight, but he still would not look at Vestakia.

"Citizen Vestakia," Cilarnen said, bowing before her. He stopped, obviously searching for words. "I beg that you will accept my… very humble… apologies. I have been… unjust. It must be a terrible thing to be seen as… as what you seem… instead of as what you are."

"Citizen." Not sure of her rank, Cilarnen had chosen to address her by the honorific that properly belonged to any inhabitant of the City, from High Mage to dock-laborer. From someone who still thought of himself as an Armethaliehan, it was an incredible honor. Kellen hoped Idalia would explain it to Vestakia later.