The Outstretched Shadow ou(tom-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  In every place the delegation from Armethalieh went, the story was the same—or worse. Some villages were gone entirely, with nothing to show they had been there but hearthstones and the village well. When crops had not been harvested down to the last seed, they had been thoroughly spoiled by wildlife, though the travelers saw not so much as a single bird.

  Misfortunes abounded. Equipment went missing, horses strayed or went inexplicably lame, supplies were lost. The only wildlife that ever appeared was never anything that could be hunted and eaten—it was ' inevitably something that would plague them. Flocks of starlings appeared overhead just at mealtime, and anything that wasn't covered was soon contaminated by droppings. Mice got into the supplies, foxes stole them, and more than once a weary and unsuspecting Mage or officer climbed into his bedroll only to discover that a wildcat had been there first… and had left evidence of its displeasure behind.

  Everywhere the Armethaliehans went, the news of their coming had somehow gone before them, and no one wanted to see them. If the Mages had not used their magic to force the few villages they encountered to feed them, the Armethaliehan delegation would have starved, but every time they did use the High Magick, the accidents that befell their party increased.

  "I see no recourse save to return to the City, Lord Arch-Mage. We await your orders."

  The figure of the last Undermage vanished upon the conclusion of the last report. The spinning crystal sphere reappeared, and slowed until once more it hovered, motionless, in the air. Lord Arance summoned it back to its box, enclosed it once more, then sat down.

  "It seems the west is not as willing to accept the benefits of civilization as is the north and south," Breulin commented dryly. "My lords, we are dangerously overextended—and for what? A wasteland. Where is the fertile granary you promised us, Arch-Mage Lycaelon? Where is The Outlaw? Where are the hordes of inferior beast-folk who supposedly lived alongside of the human villagers, corrupting them with their insidious presence? We have poured out magic like water on the desert sand—first to expand the boundaries, then to create the Scouring Hunt—and it has brought us nothing."

  There was a general mutter of agreement, and Lycaelon realized with a faint sense of despair that he had lost. The Undermages' reports were damning. The Council would never agree to the further investment of resources needed to secure the Western Hills for Armethalieh. He could scarcely blame them, for at this point, it had been all loss and no gain.

  One by one the members of the Council—all of whom had cheered him so ardently when he had proposed his plan originally—rose to speak. Each of them supported Breulin's position—even Isas and Harith expressed timid misgivings at the united opposition shown by the westerners, and the cost of overcoming it. The City's resources and magickal reserves were dangerously low, and it would be the work of long moonturns to rebuild their reserves again without disturbing the populace.

  Last of all, Volpiril rose, smiling benignly.

  "Knowledge is never wasted," Volpiril—treacherous, subtle Volpiril!— began slowly. "I believe the Arch-Mage has served the City well. It is good for us to know who our enemies are, and how much they hate us. How else can we know the depth of our own need for protection? And the Scouring Hunt has surely swept the borders clear of rabble for a season at least. Let us rejoice in that." He smiled benignly on the assembled Council, Lycaelon most of all. The Arch-Mage gritted his teeth in silence, but not without effort. The impudent Darkspawn! How dare he speak in such patronizing tones!

  "But let us also heed this warning against rashness and the dangers of trying to protect too much at once. As the Arch-Mage said in his stirring speech—which I'm certain we all took to heart—the Golden City is the City of Man, a flickering candle in the darkness of bestiality and error that surrounds it. We dare not let this precious Light go out, even though we naturally grieve to see fellow humans suffering and in peril.

  "And so, it is my recommendation, which I place most humbly before this assembled Council, that we take instruction from our momentary weakness, and return our borders to their ancient, hallowed, and historic limits, abandoning our new territories. Now and always, Armethalieh the Golden must stand alone, perfect and pure! To the walls—and not one ell beyond!"

  Volpiril sat down again amid murmurs of approval. There was a moment of expectant silence.

  It was some small consolation, Lycaelon thought sourly, to see Breulin looking as irritated as he felt himself at Volpiril's pretty speechmaking. It was true that the City's food supply would not suffer—the farmers had no other market for their crops, after all. They would continue to bring them—but now, they would want to be paid for them.

  And if ever there had been a moment in the history of the City when the actions of the Council had virtually handed anyone who had even thought of rebellion the signal to do so without fear of reprisal, this was it. Why should anyone outside the City bother to pay his just tithes and taxes now?

  "It will undoubtedly come as a great surprise to the villages of the Central Valley to discover they are no longer to be taxed or claimed by the City, but undoubtedly the visionary Lord Volpiril has some way to replace those lost revenues as well!" Lycaelon muttered, just loud enough for his fellow Mages to hear.

  He waited, but no one rose to speak in opposition to Volpiril's plan. And he would not demean himself. If they could not see the disaster they were brewing for themselves, he would do nothing more to save them from it. Let them reap the consequences of their folly. Let them see what ignorant, foolish children they really were. Let the dark days come, let all see them for what they were, and when things were darkest, let all turn to him, Arch-Mage Lycaelon Tavadon, let them beg him to save them from the consequences of their thoughtless arrogance and pride—!

  "I call the vote," Lycaelon said. He extended his hand, palm down. Disapproval.

  It went as he thought it would go from the moment Volpiril rose to speak. With ten in favor and two abstentions, his dissenting vote was overruled.

  The Council would abandon its new territories, pulling back its boundaries to the City walls themselves.,

  But this was not the end, Lycaelon vowed silently. He would accept neither this defeat nor the City's loss. Someday—someday soon—in the name of the City, the Council would reclaim all the lands Lycaelon had been forced to forfeit in its name today.

  And more.

  Much more.

  ANIGREL had received advance warning of the disastrous failure of the Scouring Hunt—more than Lycaelon had, for his information had come a fortnight ago, when he had filled his iron bowl with dove's blood and herbs to make his regular moonturn's report.

  He had learned then with a mixture of dread and glee of the Hunt's utter failure, and the defeat of the proud Armethaliehan army that rode in its wake. Glee—because the City had drained every reserve and overextended itself severely to mount the attack, leaving itself exhausted and vulnerable, easy prey. Dread—because failure on such a vast scale required scapegoats, and Anigrel knew perfectly well that his own position in Lycaelon Tavadon's household was less secure than it had been before The Outlaw's Banishment.

  After all, private secretaries could be had for the asking, and he certainly wasn't needed as a tutor anymore.

  Today's emergency Council session could only mean that the Council was meeting to review the reports from the field, admit what each of them had known a sennight ago, and fix the blame.

  "There are no failures, only opportunities." He only hoped it was possible to grasp the opportunity in this.

  "Anigrel!"

  Arch-Mage Lycaelon strode into his private office, his aura crackling with barely leashed rage. Anigrel rose from behind his desk and appeared in the connecting doorway.

  "Lord Arch-Mage." He schooled his face to a meek expression of bland deference. "The meeting did not go well?"

  For a moment Anigrel thought Lycaelon would explode—literally burst into a thousand pieces, like a Founding Day firework. But somehow the Arch-
Mage kept his composure in the face of Anigrel's goading. Such seemingly innocent remarks were one of Anigrel's few pleasures, and a necessary part of his masquerade, Anigrel told himself, because they were just the sort of thing someone with no inside knowledge of events would say.

  "The meeting did not go well, Light blast Volpiril into cold Darkness and the rest of the Council with him for their foolishness," Lycaelon snarled. "Volpiril says, in his 'wisdom,' that if the Western Campaign has been such a failure, the only thing we can do is abandon all our lands, including the Home Farms!"

  It was just as well that Lycaelon was so angry he paid no attention to Anigrel at all, for the momentary surge of shock and elation must surely have set its mark, however briefly, on Anigrel's features.

  "You should have seen Breulin's face when the Council agreed to that; he will think twice about supporting that viper next time."

  Lycaelon sounded savage in his satisfaction at that—well, Breulin owned several of the Home Farms, and now he would have to go without the protection of the City if anything untoward happened out there. More to the point, if his servants and laborers elected to defect and keep everything the farms produced for themselves, there was nothing Mage Breulin would be able to do to enforce his will.

  Now Lycaelon shook his head, the energy that his anger had generated running out of him like water from a cracked jar. "But it is done. Our borders are our walls, as it was in the beginning. The proclamations will go out as soon as they can be enscribed."

  "This is… strange news, Lord Arch-Mage," Anigrel said slowly. And important enough to report immediately, without waiting for the usual time.

  "Strange indeed. But I will not let their blindness defeat me." Lycaelon's voice hardened. "You have taught me the value of perseverance, eh, my young friend? And now, Anigrel, I am tired. Bring me tea."

  Anigrel hurried to do as he was bid, his mind turning on what this meant to his own mission.

  "There are no failures, only opportunities!"

  And this would be a great opportunity indeed… for the Dark Lady.

  FROM the habit of years, Idalia woke a little before dawn. She could feel the life of Sentarshadeen all around her, like a melody played just below the threshold of hearing, but mingled with it, terribly, was a wrongness, a discord—faint still, but holding within it the potential to grow stronger with time.

  The drought had disturbed her ever since she'd seen the first signs of it as they rode toward Sentarshadeen. Drought and flood were both aspects of the balance of Nature, for Nature was not gentle with her creatures, and sometimes the ways she achieved her balance were necessarily harsh. But a natural drought was a thing that was long years in the making, a thing of scant rains, not no rain. The High Hills were a country of long dry summers, wet springs, and soaking autumn rains, and a dry summer could extend somewhat into either side of spring or autumn without overmuch harm. But there had been no rain this spring at all, and now none this autumn, and that was not natural.

  And more troubling than that, rivers that should have run fast and deep into Elven lands, full with melted snow from the High Peaks, were dry as well.

  Perhaps ending the drought would be a simple matter, requiring nothing more than a simple—though powerful—spell. The whole of Sentarshadeen would eagerly share the price, Idalia knew. She only hoped it would be that easy.

  Best to find out for sure, then, instead of worrying about it.

  She rose and dressed, some imp of perversity causing her to reject the sturdy silks and woolens her hosts had provided in favor of her own buck' skins. Let her be seen for what she was: human, and mortal, and Wildmage. Later she would wear the silks as a matter of courtesy, of thanking her hosts tacitly for providing them, but first impressions were important, especially here, and she meant them to think of her as she intended to be.

  And Jermayan…

  No. She would not think about Jermayan, ever again. And if the man had a scrap of good manners left to him, he'd arrange matters so their paths never crossed. It was for the best. The man was an Elven Knight. He was used to making hard choices. He'd just have to live with hers.

  An unbidden thought intruded. I only hope that I can…

  She shook it off, moved quietly across the main room, to look in on Kellen. He was sound asleep, tangled up in the blankets as though he'd lost a fight with them. She felt a fond smile cross her lips. Kellen slept like a hibernating bear; there was very little chance she'd wake him, no matter how much noise she made.

  She quickly brewed her morning tea. She had no appetite herself, but she set out a plate of breakfast pastries for Kellen to find when he awoke. There'd been many visitors last night while Kellen had been out exploring, and at the moment, the larder was full enough to withstand even the onslaughts of a growing teenager's appetite.

  Kellen… Idalia remembered her first experience in Elven lands and sighed. Last night, when Kellen had come back from the Palace, his eyes had been so full of stars it was the Gods' own mercy he'd made it home at all, and walked through the door instead of into it! The Elves were so beautiful, so kind, their protracted lives so seemingly perfect… it was easy to fall into the trap of thinking they were always right as well.

  And they certainly think so, after all. It's easier to shift an overburdened mule than to get one of the Elvenborn to change his mind! "Stubborn as an Elf" now there was a new maxim for the City fathers to din into younglings' heads! And it took you forever to notice, because, when one of the Elvenkind disagreed with you, all they ever did was smile and change the subject, and it could take a person forever to figure out that there'd been an argument… and you'd lost.

  She would never lose her admiration for them, her respect for their wisdom and knowledge, and her affection for them—but jermayan had served her one good turn. She was no longer blind to their faults, either as individuals or as a race.

  But all this cloud-gathering wasn't getting her anywhere, and the sun was almost up. Idalia finished her tea, washed out the cup, and left the tea-things out where Kellen would find them. Then she picked up her walking-staff, filled her pockets with charged keystones, and left their lodging.

  She took a quicker route than Kellen had followed the night before, up past the House of Leaf and Star and into the orchard beyond. Even at this early hour, Elves were already hard at work carrying water to the fragile trees. She greeted several of them by name, but did not stop to do more than exchange the briefest of greetings. The sooner she had her answers, the sooner her real work could begin. And with their usual sensitivity to her, they understood that she had an urgent task, and did not delay her beyond the simplest of courtesies.

  A few more minutes' walk brought her to her goal: one of the ever-flowing springs that supplied the water for all of Sentarshadeen, located in the meadow beyond the Queen's Orchard. Without rain, these were the only sources of water for the city. There were five of them, as she remembered: Alcemil, Caldulin, Elassar, Helanarya, Songmairie. This should be Songmairie. Helanarya and Elassar were under Sentarshadeen itself, their waters sent by wind-driven pumps, to course through the miles of pipes whose results had so delighted Kellen last night.

  A wide path of smooth stone led up to Songmairie—laid down, Idalia guessed, when it had become necessary to bring water carts to the spring several times a day—and the verge of the spring itself was edged with a decorative pattern of stones and tiles. Grass—lush here, so close to the water source—grew up between them.

  She looked out over the meadow, but there were no unicorns to be seen at this hour, though she knew that quite a large herd lived in Sentarshadeen, since Elves and unicorns often lived together. Centuries ago, during the Endarkened War, Elven Knights had ridden unicorns into battle against the Endarkened hordes and their allies. All memory of that war had carefully been edited out of texts in the City, and it was so long ago that Idalia doubted that any of the Elvenkind now alive remembered it personally. But the memories of the Elves were very long, and their recorded
memories of Demonkind longer still, and it was never safe to forget the Shadow.

  She knelt and drank from the spring. The water was icy and pure. But not enough—even if Sentarshadeen held ten times its population, and all of them labored day and night—to water enough acreage to save them from disaster. All it would take would be one good grass-fire, one lightning strike…

  One out-of-control salamander, a high wind, or just another year of no rain. And no reason for it. It was raining in Merryvale, and that's east of here, toward the sea. Why shouldn't it rain here?