2 To Light A Candle.13 (69 page)

"Two inconvenient Mages. They must be removed."

He felt the rich glow of his Dark Lady's amusement.

"Umbrastone is what you need, my jewel, my slave. It will poison a Mage-man and send him to his bed. Mixed with another poison, it will render that poison unde-tecwble try magic"

Anigrel felt a thrill of delight. Two members of the High Council poisoned in their beds! With only a little care, he could make it look as if their own families were responsible…

"Now that I have done something for you, you must do something for me. It is so hard for me to come to you, sweet Anigrel. You must change the Wards that bind the City. You have the power now . . '.'

"Yesss…" Only let him remove three more members of the Council, and it would be a simple enough matter to suggest that the Mage Council was now stretched too thin for its members to stand in the Circle for every Great Working. To suggest that maintaining the City-Wards be turned over to a specific trusted body of Mages who performed no other task.

Anigrel would select them. Anigrel would lead them.

And Anigrel would corrupt them thoroughly.

"It can be done. I will need a little time. But it can be done. I swear it shall be done."

He felt his Dark Lady's delight flood through him, filling his body with black heat. Anigrel's body shuddered in ecstasy, the intolerable pleasure building until he collapsed to the floor, insensible.

IT was just as well, Savilla reflected, once the connection was broken, to occasionally reward one's slaves. It made the eventual betrayal so much sweeter.

And she looked forward with longing to the day when she could bring her sweet Anigrel here, to the World Without Sun, and teach him what it truly meant to love the Queen of the Endarkened.

It was nearly a quarter of a century—as the Lightworlders counted time— since she had made her first move in the war. She had acted in secret, for she knew the work would cost her dearly, and in her weakened state, any of her nobles might have challenged her.

She had withdrawn to a secret place, deep within the World Without Sun, and there she had worked tirelessly, destroying hundreds of captives gathered in secret—and all of her own folk who knew of her plan.

And then she had struck at Armethalieh.

Even with all her gathered power, she had barely been able to slip through the wards the City wrapped about itself. But her effort had borne fruit.

She had touched a child's mind.

Receptive, eager, willing to learn all she had to teach… Chired Anigrel— now Anigrel Tavadon—had provided the crack in the City's defenses that would soon bring them utter dominion over their loathed enemy. He had become hers utterly, growing in Darkness and strength through the years, moving ever closer to the City's heart of power.

It was not a true breech of the City's wards. As yet, it was only a way for her to communicate unnoticed with her most devoted slave, willing to work toward any task she set.

And now…

Victory was near.

She could taste it.

Just as she would taste the blood and flesh of her sweet slave, when he was no longer useful to her.

THE Centaur party continued to travel toward the Elven Lands. After the first few days, Cilarnen's aches and pains subsided, though riding a draft mare was just as uncomfortable as he'd thought it would be.

In every spare moment, he practiced with his new wand. The need to practice burned in him; he had his Gift back, and being able to use it again felt better than anything he could have imagined. It was as if he'd had a hand cut off, learned to live imperfectly without it, and then suddenly had it regrow before his eyes. He was only an Entered Apprentice, but he had been studying so hard to try to impress his father that he already knew many of the more complex spells that kept the City running—spells to purify water, spells to bind and unbind, spells to banish vermin, spells to calm animals and send a non-Mage to sleep, dozens more.

But though he built the glyphs that summoned his spells until his eyes ached and his body trembled with weariness, he was careful to leave them incomplete. There was no need for them here, after all, and he really wasn't sure what would happen if he completed them. For some of the spells, he lacked some of the needed components. For others… well, the more powerful the spell, the more necessary he had been taught that it was to work it within a warded Circle. All his teachers had said that over and over from the first day he'd entered the gates of the Mage-College. Cilarnen wasn't really sure what would happen if he did them out here. Summoning Fire was one thing—and Mageshield could be done anywhere. But the others…

He didn't know. And there was no one to ask.

Seeing his difficulties with the High Magick, Wirance and Kardus had offered to try to teach him their heretical sorcery. Cilarnen had accepted with very little reluctance. He was cast out by the Light already, so it didn't really matter to him one way or the other, and Kardus was the closest thing to a friend Cilarnen had among the Centaurs, though he felt an odd aversion to Wirance… not a dislike, precisely, but more as if Wirance simply wasn't someone he should be around.

"THESE are the Books of the Wild Magic," Kardus said, placing three worn volumes into Cilarnen's hands one night as they gathered around the fire. "All the wisdom of the Herdsman's path is written in their pages. Perhaps you will learn what you seek herein."

Cilarnen accepted them gingerly. There was a certain illicit thrill in handling them.

Cilarnen opened the first of the three books. The leather was stiff and slippery in his hands, the covers oddly hard to open.

"There's nothing here," he said in surprise.

"Say you so?" Kardus said, frowning. "Look deeper."

"At what?" Cilarnen demanded irritably. "There's nothing to see. The pages are blank." He handed the three books quickly back to Kardus, who looked down at the first book thoughtfully, shaking his head in puzzlement.

"Try mine." Wirance, who had been standing a few feet away, stepped closer, holding out a single slim volume.

Cilarnen took it reluctantly. It was one thing to tell himself he was willing to investigate other kinds of magic. It was another to have his nose rubbed in the reality of it. Kardus could obviously read what was written on the pages of his three Books perfectly well, but to Cilarnen, those same pages were blank.

Unlike the Books of the Centaur Wildmage, Wirance's Book seemed to burn in Cilarnen's hands, writhing under his ringers as if it wished to escape. It gave him the same feeling he had around Wirance, only magnified a hundredfold.

He gritted his teeth and pried the book open.

It was blank.

He let the covers snap shut with a sigh of relief. When he relaxed his grip, it was as if the book flew from his hands and back to Wirance's.

"Nothing," Cilarnen said. "It was blank, too."

"Well, we know that whatever you are, you're not a Wildmage—nor meant to be one, it seems," Wirance said thoughtfully.

"I am a Mage of Armethalieh," Cilarnen said. He'd never been so sure of anything in his life. Half-trained—maybe never better-trained than this—and lacking most of his tools, but still a Mage of the Golden City.

And he would save her if he could.

"A great pity we do not know more about what that means," Wirance said, slipping his Book back into his pack. "Perhaps the Elves will be able to help."

Cilarnen nodded politely, but privately he doubted it. Hyandur had been kind, but as much as he stretched his imagination, Cilarnen could not imagine the Elf tutoring him in magick.

"WE should be near the border of the Elven Lands soon," Comild said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind wailing through the trees—as Wirance had predicted before they'd left Stonehearth, the fair weather had only held for so long, and for the last several days they had been traveling through increasingly heavy snow. More and more, Cilarnen found himself longing for the comforts of the City—it never snowed in winter there, and there was always hot water whenever you wanted it. Hot water, hot food, hot baths…

"Declare yourselves."

The voice came out of nowhere. A figure had appeared in their path where none had been before—hooded and cloaked in white furs that made him almost impossible to see through the snow. He held a short bow pointed at them, an arrow nocked and ready.

"Wirance, Wildmage of the High Hills, brings Comild of the Centaurkin and his warriors to answer Andoreniel's call," Wirance answered.

"Yet do I see one among you who is neither Centaur nor Wildmage," the Elf observed, his weapon unwavering.

Cilarnen had been riding at the front, with Kardus, Comild, and Wirance. Now he wished he'd stayed toward the back. Maybe they just wouldn't have no-ticed him then—though that was unlikely. On Tinsin's back, he towered over the rest of the troop.

"I am Kardus Wildmage. It is my Task to bring the human Cilarnen to Kellen Wildmage," Kardus said, stepping forward.

There was a long pause. Cilarnen blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Suddenly there was a second Elf standing beside the first. The two of them were identical in every way, except that the second Elf held a long staff instead of a bow.

"You will accompany me," the second Elf said.

He turned and walked off through the winter forest, without waiting to see if they followed.

As they rode through the trees, Cilarnen realized they must be in Elven Lands now. He looked back, but the first Elf had vanished again.

They rode now in silence broken only by the whistle of the wind and the crunch of the snow beneath their hooves. Where before the quiet had seemed companionable, now it was awkward, as if all of them felt that someone might be listening and judging all that they might have to say to one another. For the first time it occurred to Cilarnen that he could have been stopped and turned back at the border. What would have happened then—to him and to Kardus, since Kardus would have been unable to complete his Task? Would it have been like the magickal backlash to a spell of the High Magick gone wrong? Or would Kardus simply have camped on the border until his patience wore them away?

Their guide walked steadily onward, never looking back. At last, as the short winter day drew toward a close, they reached a clearing that had obviously been prepared for them.

Windbreaks had been strung between the trees in a half-circle around the clearing to block the brunt of the winter wind. The ground had been swept clear of snow and leaves very recently, and Cilarnen could see that it was as smooth and level as the floor of a house. The sense of this place being a sort of outdoor house was heightened by the fact that in the center of the clearing was a tall cylinder. Its exterior was covered with the most beautiful tilework Cilarnen had ever seen, and through the openings in the side, he could see the gleam of embers.

A stove? Who would put a stove out in the middle of a forest?

Elves, he supposed.

"All you need is here. Others will come for you. Remain until they do," the Elf said.

With that their guide vanished, as if he'd possessed no more substance than the snow itself.

"Elves," Comild said with a sigh of relief as their guide departed. "Elder brothers, and all, but still…" He trotted into the clearing, the other Centaurs following him.

Cilarnen hung back. It wasn't that this place made him uneasy—not even as much as Wirance did, and down deep inside, he trusted Wirance—but ever since they'd ridden across the Elven border, he'd had the peculiar sense of being inside a dream he couldn't wake up from, and this place just made it worse.

Kardus looked up at him inquiringly.

"Kardus… back at the border… if they hadn't let the two of us through, what would you have done?" Cilarnen asked.

"We would have waited until they did," Kardus replied simply. "It is my Task to bring you to Kellen Wildmage, and yours to go."

"But how long would we have waited?" Cilarnen asked, pressing for information.

"Until they did," Kardus said. "I have been in Elven lands before. The Elves are not like humans, nor like Centaurs. They are cautious, but they are not unjust, nor would they deny a Wildmage who needed to complete a Task. Sentar-shadeen, the King's city, lies near the border. If we did not leave, they would send to Andoreniel, and he would tell them to let us pass."

So his guess had been right. Kardus had been perfectly prepared to wait the Elves out. Cilarnen felt—relieved. Kardus wasn't going to abandon him.

"Are we going to Sentarshadeen?" Cilarnen wondered what a whole city full of Elves would look like.

"I do not know. But come. It is cold here, and Elven stoves give good heat."

The Elves had left them more than a well-prepared campsite and a stove with a good fire. At the edge of the campsite were more provisions: casks of cider and mead, bread, cheese, and the carcass of a deer, skinned and dressed for roasting.

After weeks on the trail with nothing but dried food and trail-rations to sustain them, the Centaurs fell upon the fresh food with shouts of delight, and soon the savory scent of roasting meat filled the clearing, and the smoke of bubbling fat spiraled up toward the trees. As they waited for the chunks of meat to cook, they shared out the bread and cheese, and filled their tankards with cider and mead.

After trying the mead, Cilarnen stuck strictly to the cider—he'd had a thorough education in alcohol by now, and the mead in those barrels packed a kick like a Centaur's hoof. Maybe if things were different, he might welcome the release that came with surrendering to the light-headedness that a bit of intoxication would bring. But here, now—no. The last time he had relaxed, a Demon had come. When it happened again, he would not be unready.

Wrapped in his blankets, belly full, some of Cilarnen's sense of unreality faded, leaving him time to worry about what was to come.

What was he going to say to Kellen Outlaw when they found him? Cilarnen wasn't quite sure. The Demon's words were etched in his memory—he'd never forget those—but their meaning seemed constantly slippery. There was only one thing he could be really sure of.