She reached the cave opening and stepped outside. She looked around, wary of ambush.
“I will take the child, Idalia.”
Coethare materialized silently out of nowhere. With a grateful sigh, Idalia set Vendalton into the unicorn’s saddle and turned back into the cave.
Merisashendiel was next. The girl regarded her with big-eyed fear, suddenly unwilling to leave the others. Lairamo had to scold and bully her before she would take her place on Idalia’s shoulders.
“But what if they die?” Merisashendiel said. “What if the others come while you’re gone and take them?”
“Hush,” Idalia said brusquely. “Talking can’t change what will be. And if they haven’t come yet, they probably won’t come at all.” I hope. Did the Shadowed Elves check on their captives between feedings? There’d be no real reason to. And they’d just been fed. She tried to put from her mind what Alkandoran had said about how he’d been tracked and tormented on his one escape attempt As she’d told the child, talking couldn’t change what would be.
Up through the twisting maze of tunnels that led to the village cavern. Along the rim. Back through the maze of tunnels that led to the surface and safety. She could no longer remember for how many hours she’d been doing this, how far she’d walked through this underground world.
The surface once again, and another waiting unicorn. Merisashendiel wanted to argue with her, to suggest that she should be the one to go back down. Idalia dumped her rudely into the unicorn’s saddle and turned away.
“LAIRAMO should go first,” Alkandoran said when Idalia arrived.
“Certainly not,” Lairamo said calmly. “You will heed me in this, child. Go with Idalia.”
Lairamo looked up at Idalia. Their eyes met, and Idalia knew that they were both thinking the same thing. She couldn’t carry Alkandoran, but he was small and slender. She could fit him under the tarnkappa with her, if he put his arms around her waist and pressed very close to her, and they moved slowly.
She could not fit Lairamo under the tarnkappa with her at all.
I will find a way, Idalia vowed silently.
“But—” Alkandoran began.
“We’ll do it her way,” Idalia said. “Now this is going to be awkward and slow. I’ll need your help, and your full cooperation if we are to get out of here alive.”
Alkandoran swallowed hard, doing his best not to look as frightened as Idalia knew he felt.
“The sooner I have you out of here, the sooner I can come back for Lairamo,” Idalia said calmly.
Alkandoran nodded.
This trip to the surface was agonizingly slow, as the two of them shuffled along beneath Idalia’s cloak. Over and over Idalia blessed Lairamo’s practical no-nonsense calmness—after a sennight in the hands of the Shadowed Elves, the captives could all have been completely hysterical, too terrified to cooperate in their own rescue. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if that had been the case—the younger ones she could have bespelled into unconsciousness, perhaps (and hope that using the Wild Magic didn’t draw their captors to them immediately) but she would never have gotten Alkandoran to the surface without his intelligent cooperation.
Shalkan was waiting at the cave mouth.
“You were gone a long time, this time.”
“Slow going,” Idalia said, untangling the cloak from herself and Alkandoran. The youngster stepped away from her, drawing a shaky breath. “Just Lairamo, now.”
“We’ll be waiting for you. Come, lad,” Shalkan said.
Idalia took a moment to stretch, wrapping the cloak firmly around her, before stepping back into the cave once more. She’d already made up her mind what to do about getting Lairamo out. She suspected that Shalkan had guessed her plan.
Lairamo wasn’t going to like it. But it was the only way. And she only hoped she’d be around so that Jermayan could scold her for it later.
“NO,” Lairamo said, when Idalia told her.
“Yes,” Idalia said, just as firmly. “I’ve been over the route several times by now, and besides, I’ll be right behind you. I know how to move silently. Just follow the marks I’ve left, and they’ll lead you straight to the surface.”
“I will not buy my life at the expense of yours.”
“And what of the Prince?” Idalia was fighting dirty and she knew it, but she intended to win this argument, and swiftly. “He has seen his friends killed, and goes now to live among strangers at the Fortress of the Crowned Horns. Do I tell him I have left you behind to die? He needs you, and the Nine Cities need him. You will take the tarnkappa.”
Lairamo’s shoulders slumped as Idalia’s arguments hit home. “Best done quickly then,” the Elven nursemaid muttered. “But I do not forgive you this debt you place upon me, Idalia Wildmage.”
“I do not expect it.” I carry too many unpaid debts these days. She quickly flung the cloak over Lairamo’s shoulders and pulled the hood down over her face, showing her—by touch, since Lairamo was now invisible—how to hold the cloak to keep herself concealed. Then, with her hand on the shoulder of the now-invisible presence before her, Idalia and Lairamo made their way out of the cave.
They moved more slowly than Idalia would have liked, for Lairamo had to stop and look for the marks that Idalia had left, but they gradually made their way toward the surface, and freedom.
All along Idalia worried more for those waiting than for herself. They were pressing their luck every moment the party waited outside the cavern mouth—if this were her home, she would certainly post a watch over its entrance. But perhaps the Shadowed Elves did not think like Elves, or like Men. Or perhaps letting the captives escape was just another aspect of the trap.
All went smoothly—though with agonizing slowness—until they reached the path around the underground “village.” Idalia recognized it by the feeling of space, and by the faint glow of the firepit below—not enough for human eyes to see by, but enough to mark the place, since she had passed it so many times already this evening. She only hoped the creatures were all asleep, but thought that was too much to hope for—the meat she had seen roasting earlier argued that they were hunters, and probably hunted at night. She strained her ears for sounds from below.
Suddenly she heard what she had feared and dreaded—the stealthy approach of bare feet on rock. There was a faint click—as of a spear butt hitting rock—and a flurry of muttered whispers.
She felt invisible hands plucking at her frantically. Perhaps Lairamo had tried to shout a warning, not realizing that the tarnkappa would muffle all sounds.
“Go, Lairamo!” Idalia shouted. “Go on for Sandalon’s sake!” Praying the woman would heed her, she turned and fled back in the opposite direction, her eyes tightly shut, hoping desperately that she remembered the tunnels as well as she’d claimed.
A chorus of guttural cries greeted her night—no more need for silence now that the prey was wise to the hunt—and Idalia heard the sound of bare feet slapping against stone as the creatures ran after her.
LAIRAMO stood frozen in horror as five creatures out of nightmare ran after Idalia None of them so much as paused to glance at her, so strong was the Wildmagery of Idalia’s cloak. A choking sensation rose in Lairamo’s throat as she realized that Idalia had given up her life to draw the hunters away, so that Lairamo could gain the surface alive.
For the young Prince, Lairamo thought, her heart stone-heavy. Grimly, she turned away to look for the marks that would lead her to the surface.
“PACING won’t get them here any faster,” Kellen said to Jermayan.
The Elven knight shot him a dark look, and did not reply.
Everyone was standing to saddle, ready to ride the moment Idalia and Lairamo appeared. It was better than tempting fortune by lingering here a moment longer than they had to. Vestakia was standing watch now at the edge of the trees, adding her own magical senses to that of the unicorns, alert for trouble. If the creatures Idalia had named Shadowed Elves came near to the surface, Vestakia would
know.
Kellen had been dearly tempted to send the others on ahead, but he did not want to split the party into two small groups. If there were an ambush laid along the way, they needed to be at their full strength.
So they waited.
Suddenly Sandalon gave a high scream of terror, and a moment later, Lairamo appeared, kneeling beside him and clutching him to her chest, stroking his hair and gabbling apologies for having frightened him. The tarnkappa was pooled at her feet.
“It was the cloak, my heart, I forgot the cloak, oh, forgive me, my darling—”
Sandalon clung to her, sobbing in relief.
Jermayan snatched up the cloak and shook it, as if its empty folds might somehow produce Idalia.
“Idalia,” was all he said.
Lairamo looked up at him, her face filled with grief and misery. She looked at the tarnkappa as if she wished to burn it on the spot.
“Only one could wear it. She was seen. She ran … deeper into the cavern, lest—Lest I be discovered.”
“Come on.” Kellen barely recognized the voice as his own. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“I’m staying,” Jermayan said, wadding the tarnkappa in his hands.
And probably charging right in there after her, if no one stops you, Kellen thought.
“Vestakia, you go with them,” Kellen said, continuing as if Jermayan hadn’t spoken. “You’ll need to keep watch along the road, to let them know if there are any traps along the way. Jermayan and I will keep watch here, and bring Idalia along when she comes.”
The way he said it, it almost seemed as if it were possible. And if he were to think of it logically, they should all leave now, together. But Idalia was a Wildmage of great power, and Kellen wasn’t ready to give up on her quite yet. As for Jermayan, well, the world would fall apart around him before anyone could make him leave.
“Leaf and Star be with you,” Evanor said quietly.
Vestakia and the knights quickly mounted, taking Lairamo and the children up with them, and rode off in the direction of the Crowned Horns, the unicorns leading the way. In moments the clearing was deserted except for Jermayan, Valdien, Kellen, Shalkan, and Idalia’s palfrey.
“I’m going in after her,” Jermayan said.
“No, you’re not,” Kellen said, snatching the tarnkappa out of the Elven Knight’s hands. “Not if I have to knock you senseless to keep you from doing it.”
“As if you could, Knight-Mage,” Jermayan said. But there was a grudging willingness to listen in his voice. Kellen might be able to convince his friend, if he spoke quickly.
“One, we both know Idalia can take care of herself. Two, neither of us knows where she is. Three, she hasn’t been gone that long—not if she’s leading pursuit away deeper into the mountain. What we’re going to do is wait for her—here, where she knows to find us. If she hasn’t come back in a reasonable time, then I’ll do a Finding Spell, and based on what that tells us, we’ll come up with a plan. But I don’t know whether those things can sense Wild Magic, so I don’t want to do one before it’s absolutely necessary.”
“Very well,” Jermayan said grudgingly. “I will wait. For a while. But do not try my patience for long.”
IDALIA ran through the darkness, her hands outstretched in front of her to keep herself from running full-tilt into a wall. She dared not slow her headlong pace, for she could hear the sounds of pursuit close behind. She no longer knew where she was in the cave system.
A flung spear made her flinch aside, then another, and suddenly there was no rock beneath her feet, only air.
Idalia fell.
CILARNEN awoke lying on the floor in a tiny room that could only be described as a cell. It was a cubicle a bit less than eight feet square—though at least three times that in height—with a stone bench at one end. The only light came through a small grille set in the door. When he ran to the door and looked out, he could see that the corridor was as featureless as his cell, though it was lit to blinding brightness by globes of hovering Magelight.
He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, gulping several times to try to banish his fear. When they had begun this adventure—and he now realized, with the clarity of despair, that in some sense it had been an adventure for all of them—it had never occurred to any of them that it could end like this.
He had no idea of where he might be, though he knew he was in the hands of the High Council. Somehow they had discovered what they were doing, and arrested them all.
He hoped the others were all right.
All right? Cilarnen’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen to them, but he doubted any of them was going to be “all right.”
He walked stiffly over to the bench and sat down, leaning back against the wall. Whatever the Council decided, he knew his own fate. His father would burn the Magegift from his mind and disinherit him.
What in the name of the Light was he supposed to do with the rest of his life? He was a Mage. That was all he was. That was all he’d ever wanted to be. To study the intricacies of the High Art—to use his power for the good of the City—to perhaps, someday, create a refinement of one of the spells in the Great Book and to gain his father’s seat on the High Council or even to serve beside him.
And now it was all over.
He wasn’t even nineteen yet.
What in the name of the Light did you think you were DOING?
It was like awakening from a beautiful dream only to discover that it had been a nightmare all along. Everything had seemed so plausible: with the umbrastone, they could convince the High Council to listen to them before the City was in ruins.
Idiot. Idiot. Whatever made you think they’d listen to you when they wouldn’t listen to half the Mages in the City? All you’ve done is bring disgrace on House Volpiril and ruination on your friends! Farmer Kellen couldn’t have done better. With the thought of Kellen Tavadon, a new thought struck him. If the High Council made Lycaelon Tavadon’s son disappear, maybe they’ll send me to the same place.
Strangely, the thought brought comfort.
AT the same time Cilarnen was awakening in his cell below the Council House, Setarion Volpiril was being escorted into Lycaelon’s private offices as the chorus of Second Night Bells echoed through the City.
He had not, of course, been asleep. The High Mages were, by necessity, creatures of the hours of darkness, since the quiet night hours were best for the elaborate workings of the High Magick. He had been called from the Grand Circle—which was by day the Council chamber—by the Arch-Mage’s personal authority, and escorted to Lycaelon’s office by six stone golems and the Arch-Mage’s personal private secretary.
Anigrel stood aside to let him pass, then followed Lord Volpiril into the office. He kept his face carefully neutral, betraying no hint of the exultation he felt. Tonight was the culmination of plans carefully-nurtured for years—plans that would deliver such a blow to the Golden City that would weaken it past all ability to defend itself.
He had seen Lord Volpiril before—almost daily, in fact—but for the first time, it struck Anigrel how very much Cilarnen resembled his father—the same russet hair, the same pale blue eyes. Proper Mageborn breeding saw to that, of course. Among the sons of the Mageborn, only Kellen Outlaw had not taken after his father … in more ways than one.
“What is the meaning of this?” Volpiril demanded before Lycaelon had a chance to speak. “You interrupt the Working upon the City-Wards—we shall have to begin again from the beginning—all that time, all that preparation—wasted! This had better be worth my time.”
“Another will take your place,” Lycaelon said calmly. “Be seated, Lord Volpiril, and calm yourself. Because of your long service to the City—however misguided—I have brought you here tonight to offer you a choice.”
Whatever Volpiril might have been expecting to hear, obviously it was not this. He turned sideways, glancing back at Anigrel, who was still standing beside the door.
“I repose all confidence and trust in Anigrel. And what you will hear from him has every bearing on the decision you will make here,” Lycaelon said.
“Decision? What decision?” Volpiril demanded, sweeping his robes about himself and settling into the seat opposite the Arch-Mage’s desk. His pale eyes glittered with exasperation.
“Whether to give up your seat on the Council and retire utterly into private life. I am willing, in that case, to accept your oath and parole, providing you do nothing to interfere with Cilarnen’s trial and Banishment.”
“Cilarnen?” Lord Volpiril half-rose from his seat, thought better of it, and settled slowly back again. “What has the boy to do with anything? He is at home asleep in his bed.”
“He was arrested not two bells ago—for treason,” Lycaelon said. He smiled, gazing fully into his enemy’s eyes.
“Treason!” Volpiril leaned back in the low chair, visibly shaken. “I do not believe it. I will not believe it!”
“A dozen Mages saw him—and the cabal he had formed—preparing to make umbrastone,” Anigrel said, speaking for the first time. “There can be no doubt.”
“Where would he have gotten such a notion?” Lycaelon demanded, his grey eyes hard. “Where would he have gotten the materials—the information? There is only one place. Oh, he has not been questioned yet Whether he is questioned … that is up to you.”
“But I am innocent! I knew nothing of this! Question me under Truthspell, and by the Light, I will give you your proof!” Volpiril demanded, his face the ashy grey of shock.
To Light a Candle Page 25