To Light A Candle ou(tom-2

by Mercedes Lackey

“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!”

  Kellen stopped and turned around. “Yes, Cilarnen, they lied,” he said patiently. “About the Banishings, about Wild Magic being evil, about the so-called Lesser Races, about—too many things to go into right now. The entire City is built on lies. We’re going to save it anyway.”

  I hope.

  —«♦»—

  DIONAN was not there when Kellen and Cilarnen arrived, only Dionan’s assistant, who was tidying the tent and setting out the tea service. After a moment, Kellen dredged up his name. Alenwe.

  “I See you, Kellen Knight-Mage,” Alenwe said, bowing courteously.

  “I See you, Alenwe,” Kellen said. “I make known to you Mage Cilarnen of Armethalieh.”

  “I See you, Mage Cilarnen,” Alenwe said, bowing again.

  “I See you, Alenwe,” Cilarnen said, following Kellen’s lead.

  “Perhaps, if you are not called elsewhere, it would please you to enter and take tea, for I know you have been welcome in Dionan’s tent many times before,” Alenwe said.

  “To be welcomed into Dionan’s tent is always an honor, each time as much as the first,” Kellen said.

  There was no need for Alenwe to send anyone in search of Dionan; even if Dionan weren’t planning to return immediately from whatever errand had called him away, the Elven gossip-chains that ran faster than a bolt of summer lightning would ensure that he knew Kellen was here.

  And in fact, before the tea-water had boiled, Dionan came walking into the tent, as unhurriedly as if he’d been out for a morning stroll.

  “I do thank you for your patience with me, Alenwe, and your hospitality to my guests. Let us find something new for Kellen to try, and to honor the visitor from Armethalieh. I think perhaps Golden Pearl would be suitable. It is an excellent warming tea.”

  As the tea was prepared, they discussed the weather, which, according to Dionan, would continue hard and cold, but without any more blizzards like the one they had just weathered, or so the Wildmages said.

  At least Kellen and Dionan discussed the weather. Cilarnen remained resolutely silent, though Kellen could sense his growing frustration and bewilderment as if it were itself a gathering storm.

  The tea was poured. Kellen sipped.

  Most Elven teas were herbal. Some were heavily-spiced as well. This was one of the heavily-spiced ones. It tasted… not like fresh-baked bread, but like the idea of fresh-baked bread: warm with more than heat. It reminded him of honey, though it was unsweetened, yet it had a subtle biting undertaste he couldn’t quite identify.

  “Perhaps we shall allow our guest to give his opinion first,” Dionan said. “Cilarnen High Mage, perhaps you would wish to favor us with your opinion of this brew, of your kindness.”

  Oh, please, don’t let him say it tastes like boiled grass! Kellen thought in near-desperation.

  Cilarnen considered the matter for a moment, taking a second sip of the tea. “It lacks the body of a cured-leaf tea, of course, though perhaps that is not a flaw, as it allows the subtle interplay of flavors to bloom more fully upon the tongue. I taste saffron and ginger—a very slight hint of chamomile—and, I think, rendis. The illusion of sweetness, along with the complex hot finish, makes this, as you say, an excellent warming tea. But I do not believe it would keep well, or repay oversteeping. Of course,” he finished modestly, “I am no expert. My own tastes, as I have said, run to the cured-leaf teas.”

  Kellen stared at Cilarnen, nonplussed. Cilarnen shot him a triumphant look.

  “An excellent description indeed,” Dionan said, with approval. His gaze shifted to Kellen expectantly.

  “I must thank Cilarnen for giving me the words to say what I am yet too untutored in the Way of Tea to yet express,” Kellen said, firmly suppressing a flash of jealousy. “I could only have said that it made me think of homely things, like bread, without knowing why it did. And I would give much to know how a thing can seem sweet, and yet not be so.”

  “Ah, you would be instructed in all the arts of Tea,” Dionan said, with the faintest of smiles. “If Leaf and Star permit, someday you will not only brew properly, but blend. What a joyous day that will be for us all. But I have indulged myself sufficiently. Perhaps you would wish to share with me your purpose in coming to drink tea before the day has fairly begun, for I know you came weary from your labors at the caverns yesterday.”

  “I had hoped, if it was not inconvenient, that it might be possible to make Cilarnen known to Redhelwar, were Redhelwar not occupied with more important matters. It would please me greatly if Idalia might also be present to hear what might be said then, and whoever Redhelwar thought prudent, that Cilarnen might be made known to all at once. Though he has journeyed for many sennights through the Elven Lands, he has seen little of Elven ways, and what he would speak of is a grave matter indeed.”

  “Indeed, and grave matters must be conducted with unseemly haste,” Dionan agreed. “Present yourselves at Redhelwar’s pavilion in three hours, and all shall be as you desire.”

  “I thank you for your courtesy and your quickness,” Kellen answered. He stood and bowed.

  “A bell and a half is unseemly haste?” Cilarnen demanded, once they were a few yards away.

  “Unless someone is actually attacking—yes,” Kellen said. “Elves live a thousand years, and they do not hurry.” He shrugged. “Well, think about it. If you lived for a thousand years, what would a few bells seem like to you? And we have plenty to do between now and then. And for somebody who thinks Elven tea tastes like boiled grass, you certainly seem to be able to say a great deal about it.”

  “Awful, wasn’t it?” Cilarnen said, grimacing. “Give me a good pot of Phastan Silvertip any day. Still, you don’t spend hours in the Golden Bells without being able to talk about tea, no matter what it tastes like. And you said to be polite.”

  —«♦»—

  THEIR first stop was Isinwen’s tent. Kellen’s Second was still asleep, but Kellen showed no pity. He shook the bells until Isinwen unpegged the flap and stood in the doorway.

  His long black hair was still loosely braided for sleep, and he had hastily thrown his cloak on over a tunic and leggings, but he regarded Kellen alertly.

  “Alakomentai,” he said.

  “I make known to you Cilarnen of Armethalieh,” Kellen said. “Idalia assures me he will surely freeze if we do not find him something warmer to wear. And we are to go before Redhelwar in three hours.”

  “So it would be as well if we could present him to advantage,” Isinwen said, stepping out of his tent to regard Cilarnen critically. “Armor will be impossible. Not in three hours.”

  “He is no knight,” Kellen said. “But he’ll need something soon. Not today, though. Clothing, however, he is in great need of.”

  “Artenel will rejoice to hear it,” Isinwen said blandly. “I go upon the wings of the wind, though Leaf and Star alone know what I shall find. I shall leave my poor scavengings in your pavilion.”

  “I thank you for your help and courtesy,” Kellen said. “And I am sorry to have interrupted your rest.”

  “At that,” Isinwen said, slanting a glance at Cilarnen, “I think I must have gotten more than you did. But we were all sure you could handle two intruders by yourself.”

  Thanks a lot. Once more, Kellen was reminded of the utter lack of privacy in the camp, but if Isinwen had heard anything of what Cilarnen had said to Kellen early this morning, he would be far too polite to say so. To Kellen, at least.

  “As always, you instruct me,” Kellen said, bowing
with overelaborate courtesy. Isinwen retreated into his tent to dress, and Kellen took Cilarnen off again.

  “If you haven’t figured it out, everyone here heard you come to my pavilion last night,” he told Cilarnen.

  “They didn’t stop me,” Cilarnen said, doubt warring with accusation in his tone.

  “They knew they didn’t need to,” Kellen said. Let Cilarnen figure out the rest. Right now, he was trying to decide what to do with Cilarnen for the next couple of hours. He wasn’t sure that taking him up to the Unicorn Camp was a good idea. For one thing, he wasn’t sure the unicorns would tolerate him—he didn’t know that much about Cilarnen, after all, and celibate—as the young Mageborn were—didn’t necessarily mean chaste. For another, it would only be appropriate to give Redhelwar the bad news first.

  But he didn’t really want to be alone with him either. Paying his price was one thing. Refraining from throttling Cilarnen for new annoyances was another.

  “Have you seen much of the camp?” he finally said.

  Cilarnen shook his head. “After I thawed out, I stayed with the Centaurs. Comild—he became the leader of the levy that gathered at Stonehearth after Kindrius died—said it was best to stay out of the way of the Elder Brothers as much as possible.”

  “Good advice as far as it goes, only you aren’t going to be able to do that anymore. You’ll never be an Elf, but they’ll make allowances for that. Your manners are good, when you bother to use them. So pay attention and learn how to fit in.”

  “The Elves don’t seem very… useful,” Cilarnen said tentatively. “All they seem to do is talk about tea and the weather… and half the time I can’t figure out what they’re saying! And their armor—your clothes—it’s all so… pretty.” From Cilarnen’s tone, “pretty” was not a compliment.

  “Elven ways are not human ways. Sometimes they don’t make sense at first. Sometimes they never make sense to humans at all.” Kellen tried to sum up everything he had learned in a few simple sentences. “They love beauty, so much that they try to make everything into an art. That means fighting and weapons too. Let me tell you, that pretty armor is strong, and tough, and flexible. It’s saved my life more than once.”

  As they spoke, Kellen found that he was walking in the direction of the horse-lines. A good destination. There’d be time to give Firareth a little exercise—and to test Cilarnen’s riding skills as well.

  By the time they got there, though, he was weary with more than a night’s lost sleep. Every answer he gave Cilarnen seemed to breed more questions. So he had armor? Was he a Knight? If he was a Knight, where had he learned to fight? How could magic teach someone to fight?

  Though Kellen knew that half Cilarnen’s questions were an honest attempt to gain the information that would allow him to fit in to his strange new world and the other half an attempt to distract himself from his worries, they still nibbled at Kellen’s composure like a swarm of hungry mice at a bread loaf. Leaf and Star—he didn’t know the answers to half of them—and the ones he could answer, he didn’t know how to, not in any way Cilarnen could understand.

  Any mention of the Wild Magic seemed to simply baffle Cilarnen, like attempting to explain color to a blind man. True, it had confused Kellen when he began to study it, but even then he’d realized that there was a pattern within it— somewhere.

  Cilarnen seemed wholly unable to grasp that pattern—or even the idea that there could be a pattern.

  He’s not a Wildmage. He’ll NEVER be a Wildmage.

  They reached the horse-lines. And Cilarnen—blessedly—shut up, staring at the waiting ranks of destriers.

  “I thought we’d go for a ride this morning. I’ll have to go out and catch Firareth first, though. What were you riding when you came?”

  Cilarnen seemed to wilt slightly. “A mule. A very nice mule of course—his name is Oakleaf, but—Kellen, the Elves keep their promises, don’t they?”

  “Did someone promise you something?” Kellen said carefully.

  “When I came from Stonehearth, Lady Sarlin gave me a horse. Her name was Tinsin. She was a plowhorse—the Centaurs didn’t have any riding horses, of course. She wasn’t very fast. Nemermet—our guide—didn’t like that. He took her away from me. He said she’d be well treated, just as if she were Elven stock, and returned to Stonehearth in the spring, but…”

  “Then she will,” Kellen said firmly. “The Elves honor their allies, and if you told Nemermet that Tinsin was your responsibility, he’d take that very seriously.”

  “Oh,” Cilarnen said. He seemed to relax a little. “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Be sure,” Kellen said seriously. “Don’t ever call an Elf a liar. Don’t even think it.” Or you might find yourself in a Challenge Circle, and I’m not even sure you can lift a sword. “Remember about them making everything into an art? Their honor is an art, too, and they spend a lifetime perfecting it.”

  They walked out into the herd. Kellen stopped to pat familiar friends, looking for Firareth. He should be with the nearer herd, those who still had riders.

  “They’re all so beautiful,” Cilarnen said longingly.

  “Elven-bred, from the Fields of Vardirvoshan, and trained for war,” Kellen said. “We should be able to find you something faster than a mule—you’ll need it, to keep up with the army when it’s on the move. How well do you ride?”

  “Better than you do,” Cilarnen said smugly.

  That’s the last straw. Kellen turned to the nearest horse handler, who was moving through the herd. “I See you, Anamitar. It would please me greatly to know if Anganil has yet found a rider.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five Gifts and Promises

  THE YOUNG BLACK stallion was yet unpartnered. By the time Kellen had brought in Firareth and saddled him, Anganil had been brought to the horse-lines, and his gear had been brought from storage. He wore no armor, and his saddle-trappings were now all in white.

  By the time Anganil was saddled, they’d collected something of an audience. Kellen supposed it wasn’t very nice of him to set Cilarnen up for a quick flight into a snowbank—but Leaf and Star, the boy needed to stop making so many assumptions!

  “He’s war-trained,” Kellen warned, swinging into his saddle. “He’s young, and he hasn’t been ridden for a while. If he likes you, and you can stay in the saddle, he’s yours to ride for as long as you’re with the army.”

  He felt safe in making that much of a promise, especially since Cilarnen’s possession of Anganil wasn’t likely to extend much beyond the next five minutes. After that, they could find him something he could handle.

  He tried not to think of Ciltesse, who had chosen Anganil, hoping Kellen would ride him. Ciltesse would have enjoyed this moment very much. Or been appalled by it.

  But apparently Cilarnen did know something about horses. He took the time to make friends with the stallion, stroking his nose and speaking gently to him. Kellen offered him a piece of honey-cake, and Cilarnen fed Anganil the sticky-sweet morsel.

  So far, so good.

  When Anganil had accepted his presence, Cilarnen quickly mounted. The stallion held perfectly still, merely lifting one hind hoof and setting it down again.

  Once they’d ridden away from camp, however, it was a different story. It was just as well that Cilarnen was—as he’d claimed—a good horseman—as Anganil was fresh, playful… and very, very bored.

  After the third time the stallion plunged sidewise in feigned panic at a swirl of wind-drifted snow, Kellen said, “You’d better give him a run before he really starts playing up. Come on.”

  He spurred Firareth into a canter, then a gallop. Anganil was only too happy to follow.

  Kellen figured they’d probably have time for a good gallop up to the end of the camp and back. In the distance, he could see others taking advantage of the rest and the comparatively good weather; there were teams of draft mules out, clearing a level practice field for the cavalry units to drill on later, and groups of Elves were even building the elaborate and my
sterious snow-sculptures he’d seen back in Sentarshadeen after the first heavy snowfall.

  Anganil overtook Firareth, and Kellen let him. Cilarnen still seemed to be in control, but Kellen could tell he was having to work for it.

  Then he saw Shalkan.

  Shalkan was pacing them, several hundred yards farther out. The white unicorn was a ghost against the snow, running effortlessly along the top of it. Kellen waved, and Shalkan tossed his head in response.

  Then, suddenly, Cilarnen saw Shalkan as well.

  He stared, transfixed, at what was obviously the first unicorn he’d ever seen. For one moment, no part of his attention was on Anganil.

  And Anganil knew it.

  The stallion put on a burst of speed, then leaped into the air. He came down on his forehand, ducked his head, and kicked out hard with his hind legs.