To Light A Candle ou(tom-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Um, well, Armethalieh probably isn’t very much like your legends either,” Kellen said tactfully. He supposed the Lostlanders thought of Armethalieh as a sort of paradise, the way the wondertales wrote about the Mage College.

  “In our legends, it is a place that shines with painful brightness to mask the darkness of its Mages’ hearts; a place where there is no night or day, no winter or summer; a place where the citizens have no souls, for they have been stolen to fuel the magic of the Mages. Music fills the air eternally to mask the cries of despair rising from the captive populace,” Atroist said simply. “I apologize if my words offend you. They are only legends.”

  Oh.

  “They’re close enough to the truth,” Kellen said sadly. “Except that nobody’s in despair. Everybody’s perfectly happy with the life they have—or most of them are, anyway. They’re”—he thought long and hard for a good analogy—“sheep, and the Mages are the shepherds, except that these shepherds not only keep them shorn of every scrap of wool they grow, but would probably throw them to the wolves if wolves showed up. But they don’t know that, and so they’re completely content.”

  “You weren’t,” Atroist pointed out.

  “No,” Kellen agreed. “Idalia wasn’t either. But most people are. The High Mages make sure of it.” He supposed he ought to hate Armethalieh and the High Council for what it had done to him. Certainly they’d acted out of pettiness and spite, and tried to kill him, but since he’d been Banished, he was happier than he’d ever been before in his life.

  And to his surprise, he was worried about them. They were blind, self-centered, bigoted idiots, true, but nobody deserved to be the Demons’ victims.

  Kellen and Atroist had reached the edge of the camp by now, and a few minutes more brought them to Atroist’s tent. The two men stepped inside, and Kellen set down his pack with a sigh of relief.

  “I’d better be going. Shalkan will want to know what happened,” Kellen said. “I hope your friends get here safely.”

  “As do I,” Atroist said. “Fare you well, Kellen Knight-Mage.”

  “You, too, Atroist Wildmage,” Kellen said.

  —«♦»—

  WHEN he returned to the Unicorn Camp, Kellen was grateful to find not only tea, but soup and fresh bread waiting.

  “The advantages of being chosen for night patrol,” Petariel told him cheerfully, handing him a steaming bowl. “Not you, Wildmage. I order you to report to your bedroll at once. You look exhausted.”

  “I’ll make sure he gets there,” Shalkan said, walking around the corner of one of the tents and staring pointedly at the jar of crystallized honey until Petariel laughed and offered him a disk of it.

  “Huh,” Kellen said inelegantly, squatting near the large brazier and filling himself with bread and soup with brisk efficiency. “Thanks.” And that was all he said for long enough to fill himself up to the brim with hot food and drink. After half a loaf of bread, three bowls of soup, and two mugs of tea with a great deal of honey, he felt a lot better—well enough, in fact, to realize how tired he was. He stumbled off to his tent, one arm over Shalkan’s shoulder, glad he was awake enough to remember where it was.

  “So,” Shalkan said, once they were inside.

  “Atroist spoke to Drothi. The Lost Lands are being used as a breeding ground for monsters,” Kellen said, struggling out of his armor. When he heard his own words he stopped, blinking in surprise. But it was true, wasn’t it? The Demons had to put them somewhere while they were rebuilding their numbers. “I have to tell Redhelwar.”

  “The news will keep. And you’ll present it so much more elegantly if you’re awake when you do it,” Shalkan said cuttingly. “Now finish taking off your armor and go to bed.”

  —«♦»—

  KELLEN awoke when the sun was high, feeling as if he ought to have had restless dreams, but unable to remember any of them. Shalkan was already gone, on business of his own. Kellen dressed—not armor, but camp clothes—and made his way from the tent. He’d check with the Watch Commander for orders, then go to the tents that served as the common dispensary for food in the settled camp to see about breakfast, then bathe if his schedule allowed it. A fixed camp allowed for a number of luxuries—though he wouldn’t have thought of them as luxuries a few months ago. Hot food he didn’t have to cook himself, hot water for bathing, and more fur blankets on his bed than he could carry in a pack or on a packhorse that he shared with three others.

  Riasen was the captain of the Morning Watch—since Petariel had been on patrol last night.

  “Nothing for you to do while we’re in camp, Kellen,” Riasen said cheerfully. “Except stop wearing yourself to the bone working as a Knight and a Healer both. If that’s what being a Wildmage is like, I thank Leaf and Star I was born Elven.”

  “I did all right,” Kellen said, stung. He hadn’t thought he’d looked that tired.

  “We were all taking bets on when you’d fall over,” Riasen said frankly. “But you saved Petariel’s leg, and so… if there’s ever anything you need: ask.”

  “I hope I won’t have to,” Kellen said. “But I will, if…”

  “And Leaf and Star defend us from the day,” Riasen agreed. “Now, I have heard that Rochinuviel has sent bullocks from her own herds, and cheese from her own cellars. You won’t want to miss that.”

  “Probably not,” Kellen agreed. And if he was going to go give bad news to Redhelwar, he wanted to do it on a full stomach.

  —«♦»—

  THE dining tents were enormous; the largest single structures in the camp, designed to seat and feed hundreds at a time, and to serve as a place where a large percentage of the troops could be gathered in one place in foul weather—or as a hospital, in case of true disaster.

  The tables and benches were delicate yet strong, designed to be folded and stowed for easy transport, in the event that the entire army should need to move somewhere. Despite having been constructed for function and efficiency, the space maintained the ethereal beauty common to all the work of the Elves, and Kellen was reminded, suddenly, of the teacup he had broken last night.

  Were the Elves themselves like that teacup? Must the Elves themselves pass away for Shadow Mountain to be destroyed this time ? Was the attempt to save the Elves the attempt to preserve Beauty that would doom them all?

  Did Jermayan know?

  If the Elven Knight-turned-Mage did know, then one thing was sure: he wouldn’t tell Kellen. Maybe knowing for sure would be the one thing that would tip the balance toward disaster. Maybe working without knowing for sure was the only chance they had.

  Kellen shook his head. It sounded like something out of The Book of Stars.

  Even at this hour—late for breakfast—the tent was half-filled with Elves. Kellen walked the length of the tent, toward the far end where it opened into the cooking area.

  The army that had traveled into the mountains had contained only fighters and Healers, but an army, Kellen was discovering, needed much more than that to function properly. Not only fighters, but everything from blacksmiths to wagon drivers to armorers to launderers to cooks—an army was essentially a small mobile city.

  The kitchen staff, seeing him, took instant action without a word from Kellen, presenting him with a heavily laden tray burdened with roast meat, cheese, fruit buns, and even—amazingly—a few apples. They were a little withered from winter storage, but fresh fruit at this season was nothing short of a miracle.

  Kellen took his food to the nearest table and worked his way slowly through it, trying to at least pretend he had table manners. He wrapped one of the fruit buns in his napkin and tucked it into his tunic, knowing Shalkan would relish the treat later. Sometimes he wondered how the unicorn had indulged his sweet tooth before he’d had Kellen to cadge treats from.

  Breakfast over—and feeling comfortably stuffed—Kellen went off to look for Dionan. He knew better than to think he could just barge in on Redhelwar, Knight-Mage or no.

  —«♦»—
<
br />   DIONAN’S tent was near Redhelwar’s. Kellen waited outside while Dionan dealt with another matter—from the armor, Kellen recognized Belepheriel, the Elf of the previous evening who had suggested that there might not be any more Shadowed Elves. When Belepheriel had left, Kellen walked up to the tent and courteously shook the bells attached to the tent flap.

  “I See you, Kellen Knight-Mage. Enter and be welcome,” Dionan said.

  “I See you, Dionan,” Kellen answered in return. He entered the tent.

  Dionan’s tent was set up as an office, with a table and chairs. A smaller table held a teapot and cups—it would have been startling if it did not. Kellen took a deep mental breath and resigned himself to attempting the Elven dance of politeness once again.

  “One observes,” he began, “that the Working last night went well, and that because of that, the Wildmage Atroist journeys back to the Wildlands.”

  “So very direct,” Dionan sighed. “I will pour tea.”

  “Thank you,” Kellen said meekly. He’d thought he was doing pretty good. He hadn’t come to talk about Atroist, after all.

  “I have recently tasted a most exceptional tea,” he said, trying again.

  “It would please me greatly to know the name of this tea,” Dionan said, setting a tall pottery cup before Kellen. Kellen lifted it and sipped, tasting the familiar flavor of Winter Spice Tea.

  “The name told to me was Auspicious Venture,” Kellen said. “I am told it is a very rare tea. I am pleased to have had the opportunity to have tasted it.”

  “A rare tea indeed,” Dionan said. “One may go half a lifetime without tasting it.”

  “It had a strong flavor,” Kellen said. “And it seemed to me that the flavor changed constantly. I am sure I did not appreciate it sufficiently. I am gratified by the variety of teas available for me to taste.”

  “Indeed,” Dionan said. “You will find the teas of springtime to be strong and complex, when they come into season. I look forward to aiding you in your education, should it be possible. Many humans are not interested.”

  “I discover that I do not brew tea well,” Kellen said. “I do not see that this should be a drawback to appreciating its taste.”

  “The two go together,” Dionan said, a note of faint reproach in his voice. “Still, if you will begin by appreciating the taste, you will come to understand the making, for they are both part of the same thing.”

  The odd thing was, Kellen believed him. Tea and the making of tea had to go together, like—like swordplay and the proper stance. If you had one, you’d have the other.

  “You enlighten me,” he said, bowing where he sat.

  Dionan smiled. “Come to me to understand the spring teas, and I will teach you the making with the summer teas, for they are the most subtle, and in the summer teas, the making is all. Any fool may brew a winter tea.” He made an elegant motion—not a shrug, but an indication the subject was about to change. “But perhaps you did not come to speak of tea.”

  “Perhaps I did not know that I needed to come to speak of tea,” Kellen said, “but wisdom is not summoned, only discovered.” Another of Master Belesharon’s favorite sayings. “What was in my mind when I awoke this morning that Redhelwar would wish to know what I had done and learned since I left him.”

  “Perhaps it is so,” Dionan agreed. “If you come to his pavilion at the second hour after noon, you may speak to him of the Wildmage Atroist and other matters touching on the current campaign. I shall see to it that you have the opportunity to sample Ice Mountain Wind as well. You should find it interesting.”

  “I look forward to that opportunity,” Kellen said, rising to his feet and bowing. And I hope we’re both alive in the spring, so you can teach me more about tea.

  —«♦»—

  KELLEN spent the time waiting for the next move in this “game” of war on the hundred homely tasks that had been neglected while he’d been in the field— laundry, a proper bath, a thorough cleaning of his sword and armor—and Shalkan’s armor—now that he had light and time to do them. He discovered that his helmet-crest needed refletching—the feathers had gotten thoroughly battered and blood-soaked—and dropped it off with the armorer on his way to Redhelwar’s tent.

  Part of him chafed at this constant focus on inessentials—what did it matter whether he had feathers on his helmet or not, or what they looked like?—while another part of him was resigned to it. He could not change the way the Elves did things overnight. In fact, he probably could not change much—permanently—in his lifetime. When—if—they all got through this and beat the Demons back, the Elves would probably go right back to their old ways the next day. And until they found the next enclave of the Shadowed Elves, there was nothing more vital to be doing.

  As he crossed the camp, he could see mounted parties out on the plain, drilling on horseback with the long Elven lance. It was beautiful to watch… but it would be next to useless fighting underground.

  He reached Redhelwar’s pavilion and waited. After a moment, Dionan summoned him inside.

  “Dionan observes that you have recently had the good fortune to taste Auspicious Venture,” Redhelwar said, once Kellen was seated. “Perhaps you would favor me with your opinion of it. It would be gratifying to perceive this tea through a human’s senses.”

  Kellen’s heart sank. This was high formality indeed, something he was terrible at. And despite his growing interest in Elven teas, they were very different from the teas brewed in Armethalieh, and he’d never really been much of a connoisseur. Tea had always been something you drank when you were thirsty, and that was about it. And of all time to start comparing the finer points of leaves—

  Still, if that was what Redhelwar wanted to talk about, he guessed he’d better do his best. He needed to understand the Elves if he wanted to be able to persuade them that he was right about Shadow Mountain. But oh, it was very hard to be patient at a moment like this!

  But he put on a serious expression. “You honor me with your interest. I know very little about tea, and my tastes are uneducated as yet, but I shall explain as best I can. I am told that it is flavored with the fruit of the vilya. To me it tasted of fruit and smoke, and the taste seemed constantly to change. I found it a strong-flavored tea, and to me that was very agreeable. It was unlike any tea I have ever had, and yet it seemed to remind me of something, in a way I cannot define.”

  “It is a good description, for one unversed in tea,” Redhelwar said. “One observes that it is odd for a knight to escape Master Belesharon’s tutelage without learning the ways of tea.”

  “I have much more to learn in the House of Sword and Shield,” Kellen said simply. “And many of the… more subtle arts had been set aside to concentrate upon those which Master Belesharon considered more needful to my position and his limited time.”

  If that wasn’t enough of a hint—

  Apparently it wasn’t. “We shall do what we may to continue your education here,” Redhelwar said. “Now come. Try this tea.”

  Cups were set before Kellen and Redhelwar, and Dionan seated himself with his own cup. Kellen raised his cup, inhaling the fragrant steam.

  It was hot, yet somehow it managed to smell of the cold purity of ice. The paradox was so odd, that it actually distracted him from his ever-present anxieties. Kellen sipped cautiously.

  It wasn’t a tea for drinking carelessly, like Winter Spice. This was a tea that had to be paid attention to, almost like listening to music. It was herbal, like most of the Elven teas, and there were flavors of grass and metal in it—it sounded unpleasant, but it wasn’t, not really. And over all, the sense of winter combined with the heat of the tea seemed to offer a promise that no matter how cold the day or how deep the snow, spring would always come.

  “It is a riddle,” Kellen said, setting down his cup after several sips. “It’s hot— but there’s ice in it, somehow. Snow—and green things.”

  Dionan exchanged a pleased look with Redhelwar. “I did suggest that perha
ps the brewing would not be wasted on him, Master.”

  “I admit I had my doubts, but you have convinced me,” Redhelwar said. “Yes. Winter Mountain Ice is one of Teamaster Thenandelet’s most subtle creations, the recipe for its creation passed down in my family for many generations. When you have finished, we will pour something that requires less attention, and speak of necessary things.”

  Kellen finished his cup slowly, still trying to figure out how something so hot could make him think of cold. He didn’t quite manage to solve the riddle before the cup was empty.

  Dionan removed the cups, and replaced them with larger ones. Kellen caught the familiar comforting scent of Winter Spice Tea. Good. At least it wouldn’t distract him from what he had to say.