To Light a Candle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “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 backward 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 Cilarnen’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.

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

  Kardus picked up the discard
ed 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 Cilarnen.

  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.

  Vestakia held out her hand. Cilarnen took it without hesitation.

  “We shall both blame Kellen for this, and not each other,” she said decisively. “For he should certainly have warned you.”

  She shook her head, as over a careless child, and Kellen felt himself flushing. “Sometimes,” she said, with a sidelong glance at Kellen, “he is not very practical. Now come and sit. We must still discover the cause of your headache.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t hurt now,” Cilarnen said hastily.

  “Then it will not hurt you to be examined,” Vestakia said implacably, leading him over to another bench. “I am a Healer, and you must allow me to do my duty.” Kardus followed.

  Kellen picked up the fallen bench. When he straightened, he found Idalia looking at him.

  “Still want to kill him?” she asked.

  Kellen shook his head in exasperation. “If you happen to see a Selken Trader though, I wouldn’t mind stuffing him in a sack and selling him to them. Still, I suppose, if I’d gotten dropped in things as thoroughly as he has, I wouldn’t have handled things much better.” He took her arm and led her to the far side of the tent, and continued in a lower voice. “He told me his news. It’s bad. very bad.” He shook his head at her unspoken query. “Not here.”

  “Where?” she said.

  “Whenever Redhelwar can see us. But he wouldn’t eat this morning, so I brought him here. That was after he sneaked into my tent last night and I nearly killed him.”

  “Poor Kellen,” Idalia said with fulsome sympathy. “Bearded by the terrible High Mage in his bedroll.”

  “Entered Apprentice,” Kellen corrected absently. “And ready to test for Journeyman, which means he knows the spells—if he could figure out a way to use them.”

  Vestakia came over to them then.

  “He has no head injury, and it is not any kind of cold sickness I know, nor poison—and Kardus says that if a spell had been cast upon him, he would probably have been a great deal sicker than he was. Kellen, did you see what happened to him?”

  Kellen thought about it. “Nothing happened. We were in my pavilion, drinking tea—Armethaliehan Black. I drank it, and so did Kardus. He was fine then. We went to eat. He was sick by the time we got there, I think.”

  Idalia shrugged. Vestakia looked baffled. “Well, he swears his head does not hurt now,” she said.

  “We can’t just knock him over and have a passing Knight-Mage sit on him every time he develops a headache,” Idalia retorted. “It wouldn’t be convenient—and you might start to like it, Kellen.” She tapped her lips with one finger, thinking. “I’ll make up a cordial for him to take if his head starts hurting again. If it doesn’t work, bring him back. Oh—and you might want to see about getting him something warmer to wear. What he’s got is good enough for Stonehearth, or for camp, but if we have to go any further north, he’s going to freeze, and he must be cold already.”

  Kellen sighed—he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. But when had he been appointed Cilarnen’s nurse? Still, proper Mageborn like Cilarnen were small and slender. They might even be able to fit him from the clothing the dead had left behind.

  It was a gruesome thought, one he wouldn’t have had a moonturn ago, but it came to him now with simple matter-of-fact practicality.

  “I’ll see to it,” he said. In fact, he’d tell Isinwen to see to it. That way, Cilarnen’s clothes would not only be warm, but suitable.

  Idalia went to see to the making of the cordial, taking Vestakia with her. Kellen went over to Cilarnen.

  He really did look better. Whether it was the sudden shock, or just because the headache had run its course, he seemed to be fully recovered.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings,” Cilarnen said quietly. “I didn’t think …”

  No, Kellen thought. They didn’t teach any of us to think in the City, did they? But you started thinking there—or trying to—and that’s what started all your problems.

  Just the way it started mine.

  “The fault was mine,” he said. “I didn’t think, either, and as a result, I gave you a terrible shock, and she was upset. Let it be forgotten.”

  “If I will not be needed here,” Kardus said, “there are matters elsewhere that require my attention. Follow the Herdsman’s Path, Cilarnen. Kellen will be your friend.”

  “I have kept you too long already,” Cilarnen said, with automatic courtesy. “Go with the Light.”

  The Centaur trotted quickly from the tent, leaving Kellen and Cilarnen to share an awkward silence. A few moments later Idalia came back with a bottle of amber liquid and a horn spoon.

  “Here you go,” she said to Cilarnen. “It’s not the same thing you were taking in Stonehearth, from what Yatimumil says, but if your head starts hurting again, take two spoonsful of it. If that doesn’t work, come back here.”

  “Yes,” Cilarnen said. “Thank you.” He was regarding Idalia curiously, as if there were questions he longed to ask her, but didn’t quite dare.

  Kellen felt—strongly—that those questions had better go unasked just now. Cilarnen might have been able to repair his lapse with Vestakia, but Vestakia had an essentially forgiving nature. He wasn’t quite sure how Idalia would react to any questions along the lines of how she—a mere female—had managed to learn magic.

  “Come on,” he said, giving Cilarnen a quick gentle shove toward the opening of the tent.

  “NOW,” he said, once they were outside. “We are going to see Redhelwar’s adjutant, whoever is on duty. He may offer us tea. Drink it; believe me, it is an honor to be offered tea. Do not tell him it tastes like boiled grass. Do not even think that it tastes like boiled grass. Elves have very sharp hearing. And—”

  “Don’t ask them any questions?” Cilarnen suggested.

  “Right,” Kellen said, relieved that Cilarnen had figured out that much. “They may ask you questions. Don’t be surprised. It’s called War Manners, and this is an army in the field, so in an emergency, the forms of etiquette are relaxed. But generally questions are considered incredibly rude. Like—” He groped for the proper comparison. “Like barging into someone else’s house and making yourself at home, I guess.”

  “You lecture like Master Tocsel,” Cilarnen grumbled, shivering. “How long did it take you to figure all this out?”

  “I didn’t figure any of it out,” Kellen told him honestly. “Fortunately Idalia—my sister—had lived
with the Elves before, and she told me so I wouldn’t make, well, too many mistakes.”

  “Sister?” Cilarnen said, blankly. He might not have noticed the last time Kellen had mentioned having a sister, but he did now.

  Just too late Kellen remembered that Cilarnen would have known perfectly well—along with everyone else in the City—that Kellen Tavadon was Arch-Mage Lycaelon’s only child. For a brief moment, he wondered how Lycaelon had managed that. Cilarnen was Kellen’s age, or near it; certainly he wouldn’t have known about Idalia any more than Kellen knew about Cilarnen’s family. But there was Volpiril—or Cilarnen’s mother, who might actually have known Idalia … Kellen wondered for a moment how many other nasty little secrets the Mageborn families shared.

  “She’s my older sister. Lycaelon’s firstborn. Banished for practicing the Wild Magic ten years before I was,” Kellen said.

  “You never mentioned her.”

  In all the intimate conversations we had at the Mage-College?

  “Lycaelon made sure I didn’t remember her,” Kellen said briefly.

  “I don’t think that’s right,” Cilarnen said, a new, hard note in his voice. Then a few moments later, he spoke again. “Kellen?”

  “Yes, Cilarnen?” Trying very hard not to sigh.

  “If she was Banished ten years before you were, you would have been seven, and I would have been eight. Was it a full legal Banishing?” His voice was full of a sharp urgency. “Did she appear before the High Council? Did she wear the Cloak? Did they send the Hunt?”

  “Yes, and yes, and yes, and yes, and why does it matter?” Kellen said, beginning to get irritated despite his best intentions.

  Cilarnen swallowed audibly. “It matters because of a course at the Mage-College you never took: Jurisprudence of the City. They taught that there hadn’t been any Banishings for over a century, that it was an ancient custom from the Dark Times, fallen into disuse now.” And now there was yet another note in his voice—one that said the bottom had fallen out of his world. “They lied Kellen!”