Kellen quickly got to work. No student of Belesharon’s was afraid of a little hard work, and besides, he was looking forward to getting his bedroll unpacked and finding who was brewing the tea. Menerchel usually took charge of that—Kellen had tactfully assured the others at the outset that he would happily light any fires they liked, and do extra work putting up the pavilions, but that everyone would be a great deal happier if he did not do any of the cooking.
The other thing at the back of his mind was that surely, if he was hidden away in the midst of the Unicorn Knights, none of the other Wildmages would be able to find him.
It wasn’t that Kellen was afraid to meet another Wildmage. Wildmages were, one and all, a force for Good. And he’d long since gotten over the time when he’d worried about being a not-good-enough Wildmage. That had ended at the moment when he’d discovered he was a Knight-Mage, a different sort of Wildmage entirely.
So, then, why?
Both his Wildmage training and Master Belesharon had taught him that such hidden reluctance was a warning, to be confronted and understood at once, if at all possible. Now that the pavilions were all in place—and firmly staked down against the wind—Kellen went and collected his equipment and Shalkan’s armor. He dropped it in his tent, then procured a large mug of Winter Spice Tea from Menerchel, then returned to his tent to unpack his gear and think the matter over.
He wasn’t afraid of the other Wildmages. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was. And as for not wanting to be the center of attention … well, he was getting plenty of attention right here, since all of the other Unicorn Knights were just as fascinated by a Knight-Mage as any strange Wildmage might be, and if Elves were legendary for their stubbornness, they were equally known for their curiosity.
So that wasn’t it.
“Cozy,” Shalkan said, walking into the tent.
Since the pavilion was—naturally—in Kellen’s “color,” the light shining through it turned Shalkan’s white fur a radiant pale green, which was a rather startling effect, Kellen thought.
“I guess it’s going to be home for a while,” Kellen said. “So I’m just as glad it’s comfortable.”
“Idalia’s looking for you—or so I hear. There are some people she wants you to meet,” Shalkan said, tilting his head to regard Kellen from beneath his long lashes.
“And I don’t want to meet them. And I don’t know why,” Kellen sighed. “I’m trying to figure that out.”
“Child of the City,” Shalkan said, his voice unusually serious, “you are not responsible for the errors of your ancestors. Not even the most immediate ones.”
“Of course not; I know th—Is that it?” Kellen said, catching himself in midsentence.
“Maybe,” Shalkan said inscrutably.
Kellen thought about it. Idalia had been gone from Armethalieh more than half her life, but he hadn’t. It was true that he’d been Banished, and Armethalieh had severed all its ties with him, but maybe, deep in his heart, he was still what Shalkan had called him: Child of the City.
And Armethalieh had not done well by the Wild Magic. It had set the High Magick in its place. It had cast out its Wildmages, denied their existence, killed them wherever it found them.
Now he could identify the peculiar reluctance to meet another Wildmage.
It was guilt.
“But they won’t blame me,” Kellen said aloud, exasperated with himself.
No, they won’t—so stop blaming yourself. You had nothing to do with decisions made in the City centuris before you were born.
Kellen sighed, feeling the knot of tension and reluctance dissolve. “I’m always borrowing trouble, aren’t I?”
“I don’t see why you feel the need to,” Shalkan said, “when the world is always willing to give so much of it away for free. Now, don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Yes,” Kellen said. “And … thanks.”
HE found Petariel and let him know where he was going, then headed off to find Idalia.
Sentarshadeen’s encampment was at the far side of the Gathering Plain, so Kellen had to walk through most of the camp to reach it.
The tents of Ondoladeshiron were nearest the city itself, and Kellen recognized banners from Windalorianan, Deskethomaynel, and Thultafoniseen as he passed, for part of his training in the House of Sword and Shield had been in the heraldry of the Nine Cities. That meant Lerkalpoldara, Valwendigorean, Realthataladon, and Ysterialpoerin were yet to arrive, but they were the most far-flung of the Nine Cities, and it might be another fortnight before they arrived. Andoreniel’s army should be on its way to the cavern before that, Kellen hoped.
He reached the Sentarshadeen pavilions, and saw familiar faces—but not the familiar faces he was looking for. In response to his puzzled expression, Dervasin took pity on him and observed that the Wildmage Idalia was to be found with Evanor, Vestakia, and the others among the tents of the Healers, and pointed him in the right direction.
Once more Kellen set off, discovering that he’d passed that collection of tents on his way across the field. Since the Healers weren’t knights, their tents were a reflection of their personal style rather than knightly colors. Some were … very bright indeed, their surfaces as brilliantly and randomly colored as a field of wildflowers. Others were as plain and deceptively simple as an Elvenware bowl, or—in the way of Elves—carefully painted to look like something they were not. The pavilion Idalia shared with Vestakia, for example, was artfully crafted to look as if it had been stitched together from carefully-tanned deer hides, right down to the tiny stitches and the small imperfections in the leather. Only when you touched it did you realize that it was the same thick and durable silk canvas as all the others.
He wondered whose idea that had been.
He hoped Vestakia hadn’t had any problems. They’d all grown so used to her appearance in Sentarshadeen that it only now occurred to Kellen that the rest of the Nine Cities might see nothing more than her outward appearance.
He dismissed the thought with a shrug. She had many friends and protectors now.
He found Idalia’s tent without difficulty, and stopped outside to ring the bells braided into a length of cord suspended beside the entrance. Without a door to knock on, the ever-punctilious Elves had found another way for someone to announce his presence.
“Come in, Kellen,” Idalia called immediately. She must have been expecting him. Or else by now, she could just tell when it was him.
Kellen pushed through the flap—resisting the urge to duck—and looked around.
Idalia’s pavilion was larger than his—which only made sense as she might have to do healings here. Just now it contained a number of large chests, a standing brazier for warmth, and a low table with several stools that could be folded out of the way for night.
She and Vestakia were both here, and as Kellen’s eyes adjusted to the lower light level after the wintry glare outside, he saw there was a third person present as well.
The man got to his feet as Kellen entered. He was human, tall and slender, his skin burned dark with wind and sun, making his age difficult to judge, though Kellen could tell he was certainly beyond middle years. He bore an odd elusive resemblance to Vestakia, and Kellen could feel the same sense of peace and intense focus—for lack of a better term—radiating from him that Idalia possessed.
“I greet you, Wildmage,” Kellen said, bowing.
“And I you, Knight-Mage Kellen,” the Wildmage said, holding out his hand.
Quickly Kellen pulled off his gauntlet and took the man’s hand. He’d spent so long among the Elves that he’d almost forgotten there were other ways of doing things!
“This is Wildmage Atroist,” Idalia said. “He’s from the Lost Lands.”
“He knew my mother!” Vestakia said excitedly.
“Yes. Virgivet was a dear comrade of mine. I had always wondered what happened to cause her to leave Wind’s Bridge—but now that I know the whole of her story, I see that she had no choice in what she did. And
she gave the world a splendid daughter—one to be proud of.”
Vestakia smiled at the praise, her eyes glistening with happy tears.
The four of them sat down around Idalia’s table once again. Kellen removed his helm, his cloak—it was quite warm in Idalia’s pavilion—and his other gauntlet, setting them in a careful bundle at his feet. Idalia set a cup before him and filled it with hot spiced cider, refilling her own cup and the cups of the other two as well.
After an exchange of pleasantries—brief by Elven standards—Atroist got down to business.
“These are hard times for us in the Lost Lands. When the Firstling King’s warning reached us, he told us nothing new. The Dark Folk have always walked openly in the hard western hills. But if they now turn their attentions to the east, we fear their hand will fall harder upon us than ever. And if that should happen, I do not think the Herdsfolk will survive.”
Atroist glanced toward Vestakia, his expression grave.
“Ours is a hard land, with hard ways, as Virgivet knew. But the Dark Folk and their treacheries are a constant threat. They steal unprotected babies from the cradle, lure lone travelers to their doom, attack our flocks in the guise of monsters. Perhaps that is why the Wild Magic runs so strong in the West—we have great need of it there. Without our spells to discover and mark them, wanderers would be lured into the Haunted Places, and not all our Healing Arts could restore sanity to such a one afterward. When a kinsman is Overshadowed, a Wildmage can lift the spell before harm is done to the Light Within, if one is summoned in time. And when the Dark Folk raid in force—though once that was a rare thing—our magic often gives us warning enough to get the people and the flocks to safety, so that there is little loss of life.”
Kellen looked at Idalia. Her face was gravely expressionless. When he’d ridden through the Lost Lands with Jermayan, the Elven Knight had told him that the place was dangerous, but listening to Atroist, Kellen figured they’d both been incredibly lucky. Vestakia had told him she had to spend a lot of time hiding from Demons, but Kellen had thought they were just coming after her personally. Apparently, the Lost Lands were practically a Demon playground.
And nobody had known.
“I see grim looks upon your faces,” Atroist said with a gentle smile, “but this is the only life I, or any of my people, have ever known, so to us it seems very ordinary. The Good Goddess does not send to us a task beyond our strength, and each year enough Wildmages are born to protect the people and to replace those who go home to Her. So we had been content.”
“‘Had been,’” Kellen quoted back to him. “But something’s changed?”
Atroist sighed deeply, his weather-seamed face going grave. “In the last few turns of the seasons, the Dark Folk have grown bolder and more savage. Their raids increase in frequency and number.” He bowed his head for a moment. “It is our custom to go in force to a village when we know the Dark Folk intend to strike at it, and so I was at Goatford that day with seven of my fellow Wildmages, though my home had been in Wind’s Bridge since Virgivet left.
“It was the springtide, as it usually is when the attacks come, for then the flocks are spread upon the hills in search of the new grass, and the ewes and nannies are heavy with young. The flocks are the life of the Herdsfolk, and without them the people will starve; it was as important to get the flocks to safety as to shelter the people. We did not manage it in time.
“There was a great battle. We won—in the sense that the Dark Folk did not take any of our people alive. That is always a great cause for rejoicing among our people.”
“Oh, yes,” Vestakia said feelingly, putting her hand over his. Atroist took her hand, clasping it tightly as if for comfort. “Believe me—I understand. It would be much better for you to kill them yourself than to let them fall into Their hands. Your people would thank you for it, if they could.”
“So the Good Goddess and Her Consort teach us,” Atroist said somberly. “But you are one of us, so you know. And afterward, there were the wounded to heal, and the scattered flocks to retrieve. By the time my duties at Goatford were done and I could return to Wind’s Bridge, three days had passed, but I was easy in my heart, for I had left my people well-protected with spells and charms.”
He paused to take a deep drink from his cup.
“But when I arrived, Wind’s Bridge was not there.”
For a moment, Atroist’s face crumpled with grief, but then he composed himself. “The village was gone. Not one stone stood upon another. The land itself was scoured as if by fire. No tree, no blade of grass, not even the village well remained. The very earth reeked of Taint and blood.
“For days I wandered the hills insensible. I saw no other living thing—not even a remnant of the herds. I realized that every living thing that had belonged to Wind’s Bridge was dead—or alive in the hands of the Dark Folk. And more. I realized that they had somehow concealed the attack upon Wind’s Bridge from the Wild Magic, allowing us to send our strength to Goatford and leave Wind’s Bridge unprotected. For a full turn of the seasons I walked the hills, stopping no more than a few nights in any village as I railed against the Good Goddess, demanding to know how She could let this happen to the innocents under my care.
“At last She took pity on me and opened my heart to the knowledge I had been too wounded to bear that if I, if a dozen Wildmages had been at Wind’s Bridge that day, it would have made no difference. We would only have died along with our people, for such power as was brought to bear against Wind’s Bridge that day was too great for the Wild Magic to stand against alone.”
There was a moment of painful silence after Atroist finished speaking.
“It’s my fault,” Vestakia said at last. “They destroyed Wind’s Bridge because of me.”
“No!” Kellen and Idalia said in chorus.
“And if it is?” Atroist said. “What will you do?”
Vestakia blinked, staring at Atroist as if he’d slapped her. Then she took a deep breath. “I … no! It isn’t my fault! I’m not responsible for what They do! How can I be? I can’t control Their actions! Yes, They probably picked Wind’s Bridge to destroy because Mama came from there, but it was Their choice, not mine.”
“Good girl,” Atroist said with a smile. “I had to learn that lesson as well, and it’s a hard one. Just because you have a connection to a thing, you are not necessarily responsible for its actions.
“But to finish my grim tale quickly, this was nearly five turns of the seasons past. Since then, we have found that the Dark Folk raid more often, and will sometimes attack two or more villages on the same day, or within a day of each other. And so I come not only to bring my aid, but to speak for my people. They, more than any, do not wish to see the Shadow triumph. But if our Wildmages and warriors leave the people and the flocks, who will defend them against the Dark Folk? How can we fight, knowing that all we love will be gone when we return?”
Idalia cast a despairing glance at Kellen.
This was a heavy blow, but neither of them could blame Atroist. If things were as bad in the Lost Lands as he said, then asking the Herdsfolk to give up all their defenses was asking them to commit suicide. But most of the Wildmages left were in the Lost Lands and the High Reaches, and they were going to need them all.
“Would they come here?” Kellen asked. “Men, women, children—and goats?”
“Kellen!” Idalia burst out. “You can’t offer the whole Lost Lands sanctuary in the Elven Lands! You don’t have the power!”
“No,” Kellen agreed. “But I think Andoreniel will agree to offer them safe passage through the Elven Lands, if we ask him to. There’s a lot of unoccupied land between the Elven Border and the Wildwood, and more between the Wildwood and Armethalieh. The, uh, Dark Folk aren’t raiding this far east. Not yet anyway. The noncombatants would be safe—if cold.”
“Cold!” Vestakia scoffed. “This isn’t cold.”
“They would come,” Atroist said with certainty. “To be safe from the Dark
Folk—never more to fear the sobbing outside their shutters in the night, nor the sound of wings overhead in the darkness—not to live in terror that any stranger may be one of Them in disguise—Oh, yes, Kellen Knight-Mage, they will come. And gladly.”
ALL that was needed to put Kellen’s plan into operation was to get the request to Andoreniel and receive his permission in return.
Fortunately, he had a fast messenger available, assuming he could talk Jermayan and Ancaladar into it.
The arrival of the dragon at Ondoladeshiron had not caused panic, since Andoreniel had sent messages ahead of time, but Ancaladar’s presence was an occasion of more curiosity than Kellen and Vestakia combined. When Kellen left Idalia’s tent, he realized that Jermayan wasn’t going to be that hard to find.
Jermayan and Ancaladar, making a virtue of the inevitable, had decided to put on a sort of aerial display for the encampment Ancaladar was circling the Gathering Plain, flying low and slow enough for everyone to get a good look at him. Kellen could see the sunlight glint off the dragon’s black scales, and see the blue flash of Jermayan’s armor.
“Idalia—Vestakia—come look! Jermayan’s brought Ancaladar down low enough for everyone to watch!” Kellen called, and the others crowded out of Idalia’s tent to watch.
After a few minutes of circling, dragon and rider soared high into the sky—and there, to Kellen’s astonished delight, Ancaladar performed a series of acrobatics that reminded Kellen of nothing so much as a selkie after a particularly choice fish.
It came to Kellen that what he was watching, however entertaining it looked now, had a grim and entirely serious purpose. These were the battle moves for sky fighting, the forms that Ancaladar would have to use against flying enemies. Jermayan would have to not only remain in the saddle, but be able to cast spells while Ancaladar was performing these maneuvers.
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