To Light A Candle ou(tom-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  And hope the Wild Magic shows me what I need to do, Kellen thought soberly.

  —«♦»—

  SOON all the Wildmages had moved into the pavilion, and the army had moved into position outside.

  Redhelwar stepped through the opening, and bowed to Idalia.

  Idalia returned the salute gravely.

  “Today we will attempt to see beyond the wards of the City of a Thousand Bells, called Armethalieh, and know what takes place within her walls,” Idalia announced formally. “Who will share with me the price of the Working?”

  “The army and its allies will share in the price of the Working, Wildmage Idalia,” Redhelwar said. “In token, I bring this.”

  He held out his hand. Resting upon the palm was a tiny circlet: a band made of three strands of Redhelwar’s hair, intricately braided into an endless ring.

  “I accept your oath and your gift,” Idalia said, taking the ring. “May the Gods of the Wild Magic favor us this day.”

  “Leaf and Star will that it be so,” Redhelwar answered, bowing and retreating from the tent.

  Idalia returned to the center and lit the brazier. As the ghostwood began to kindle, she took her staff and began to walk around the outer edge of the group of Wildmages, drawing a line in the beaten snow.

  —«♦»—

  SHE refused to let herself think beyond each moment. There was one last reason why she was the only possible person to be the caster of this spell: all her prices were now paid, save for one. For any other, the Mageprice for a spell such as this would surely be heavy.

  She returned to her place in the center of the circle, between Kellen and the brazier. He stood as calmly as if he were already in deep trance, as alertly as if he might be called upon to fight at any moment.

  Waiting.

  She’d said he’d grown up, and he had. Whatever past trouble there had been between him and Cilarnen, it was over now. He no longer needed her—he might still value her opinion, but he would never again depend on it instead of his own. The work of bringing him to adulthood—and vital work it had been—was done.

  If disaster struck, those she loved—and who loved her—would survive.

  Idalia knelt and took up the bundle of dried herbs and the ring of hair. She slipped her dagger from her belt and scored a long line down her palm, then clutched the herbs and hair in that hand tightly, moistening both with her blood.

  Then she cast them onto the brazier of burning wood.

  The smoke coiling upward changed color abruptly, and she felt the shimmer as the dome of protection rose around them all, expanding outward to enfold the army as well.

  The Link formed, the Power of the assembled Wildmages joining together, becoming one, becoming hers. She felt the spell uncoil within her as she inhaled the smoke.

  She reached out toward the mirror.

  Show me what I need to See: Tell me what I need to Know.

  It glowed bright as the moon, growing larger and larger until it was all there was.

  —«♦»—

  SHE was in the City.

  Not now—but then. What she saw was in the past. For a moment she was puzzled, then realized she must need to See this as well.

  The Temple of the Light. An Adoption ceremony. The spell let her Know the meaning of everything she Saw, and so she knew that what she saw was Anigrel being adopted into House Tavadon, and that later this same day he would be appointed to the Mage Council and take Volpiril’s seat.

  She knew that Breulin and Isas had been forced to resign.

  She knew that Anigrel was Cilarnen’s Master Raellan.

  There is no conspiracy. There never was. Anigrel started it all—

  With dreamlike swiftness, the hours and days of Anigrel’s life unfolded to her: the formation of the Magewardens and the Commons Wardens—the network of spies to inform upon the people of Armethalieh and sow terror among them. Every thread of unholy Darkness woven through the golden fabric of the City was spun from Anigrel’s hands.

  She watched as he murdered Lord Vilmos.

  And she saw… she saw…

  —«♦»—

  DEEP in the darkness of the World Without Sun, Savilla came out of her entrancement with a strangled cry of rage, though it was long before the proper time for her Rising.

  Someone was tampering with her slave.

  She felt it, through the soul-deep link she shared with her Mage-man.

  The festering sickness of the Light approached him.

  They will not!

  —«♦»—

  WITH the fresh horrors of not one, but two murders to convince them—and not merely murders of Mageborn, but of members of the Mage Council itself—High Mage Anigrel’s proposals for special, dedicated, highly secure groups of Mages to handle the routine magick of the City had passed by unanimous Council vote.

  No one had suggested filling the empty Council seats. No one had dared. They were beginning to learn—slowly, but they were learning—that to disagree with any of Anigrel’s proposals could well be seen as a sign of sympathy with the burgeoning Wildmage Menace.

  And certainly there was no one better than the Chief Magewarden to see to the security of the City-Wards themselves.

  Tonight his plans would bear their first fruits. Tonight he and highly loyal acolytes would begin to change the Wards surrounding the City. And soon…

  Soon the City-wards would keep out only what Anigrel wanted kept out.

  The Circle was assembled. The hour was correct. The braziers were lit, and the air was thick with the proper incense—a compound Anigrel had crafted personally. The nine Mages of the Points of the Light began to draw the elaborate sigils, chanting out the spell as they did so, while Anigrel and the remaining three sang the complex antiphon. The Great Sword warmed in his hands; soon it would be time to draw the first of the Seals…

  —«♦»—

  IDALIA watched in sick horror. It was worse than she had imagined—worse than anyone had feared. Anigrel was the Demons’ creature—had been for years. And now he’d managed to reach a position where he could strip away Armethalieh’s defenses—and let the Demons in.

  He was going to give them the City.

  And all she could do was watch.

  —«♦»—

  SAVILLA stood naked in her ivory chamber. The walls were spattered with blood, and the remains of half-a-dozen dismembered slaves lay scattered about, for she’d had no time to be neat or elegant. The obsidian bowl was filled to overflowing with hot fresh blood, and more pooled on the ebony table and ran down its legs to the floor.

  Her Mage-man was doing his City-magic—that made everything much easier. She could touch what Overlooked him.

  Wildmages.

  Savilla’s fury grew until it nearly choked her. How dare they meddle in her plans?

  She bared her fangs in savage glee as she tested the power of their spell and followed it to its source. They’d worked so hard and so diligently to penetrate the human city’s defenses.

  But a breech for you is a breech for me, my darlings, Savilla purred to herself in sudden delight. In their desperation, they had made themselves vulnerable.

  She struck with all her might.

  —«♦»—

  KELLEN Saw all that Idalia Saw—they all did—but without the Knowing, it meant little to him. He let the images go, concentrating on feeling the currents of power that flowed through them all—through the ring of Wildmages into Idalia; from the army into the ring of Wildmages—searching constantly for anything out of place.

  The spark that was Cilarnen was like a bright ember; different, apart, but not wrong.

  Jermayan… another sort of difference. Not wrong.

  Kellen ignored them both.

  Then:

  “No!”

  Shouted—whispered—thought—he did not know which of these he did. But disaster—he sensed it—coming—already here—he didn’t know which.

  He reached out to Idalia. She had to end the spell.
>
  He was too late.

  Time seemed to slow. The surface of the mirror faded to darkness, and bowed outward as if its surface were not crystal, but oil. It reached for Idalia.

  If it touched her, they would all die.

  —«♦»—

  HE was sure they all felt they were doing something—even Kardus was staring into the mirror as if he could see something other than the reflections of Idalia and Kellen and everyone else here standing around in a circle. All Cilarnen knew was that the ice-pavilion was filled with smoke—very little of it was escaping through the smoke-hole in the roof—and it made him want to cough.

  And that he’d never been so uncomfortable in his life.

  It was like when he’d handled Wirance’s Books—but worse.

  It was like being terrified—only his mind wasn’t terrified at all. His mind could see no reason for fear standing in a smoke-filled house made of ice.

  But his heart was beating so hard that his entire body shook, and inside his gloves, his palms were slick with sweat.

  And then he heard Kellen cry out.

  —«♦»—

  CILARNEN flung Mageshield over Idalia at the exact moment Jermayan Cast his own shield. Kellen felt Cilarnen reach the end of his own power in seconds—

  And felt Ancaladar bolster Cilarnen’s power with his own.

  “Freely given,” Kellen heard. “Freely given.”

  Cilarnen’s shield strengthened.

  Held.

  The two shields—one of High Magick, one of Elven Magery—sparked and boiled over each other, the emerald and purple refusing to blend.

  They have to hold! Kellen felt as if the whole force of both forms of magic— neither his—was pouring through him, tearing him apart.

  But the power of the Circle was his as well.

  He drew upon it, forcing the two Shields together. His pain was a distant thing; he forced it still farther from his consciousness, focusing all his intent upon holding the two shields together. Now he could see them clasped in a faint blue tracery: his Will. The will of a Knight-Mage, which could not be turned aside from its purpose, save by death.

  A bolt of pure Darkness struck their combined shield.

  He heard Cilarnen scream; felt Jermayan’s agony. Ancaladar bellowed in pain and outrage.

  The shield held. And he held; though he felt as if every atom of his body was being torn asunder, he held, and held, and held, by will alone, and then as his will eroded, and he felt even that failing—He was filled again with power, with a pure white power that held every color of magic there ever was within itself. And what little remained of his ability to think put a name to that power.

  Shalkan.

  This was why Shalkan held back from the other Workings, even when it was to heal one of his own kind. This was what Shalkan had been saving himself for, without knowing exactly what would be needed, only that it would. He fed the very essence of unicorn through the bond that tied him to Kellen, and into Kellen’s Will, into Cilarnen, because Cilarnen was as virgin as Kellen, into the shield, so that all powers fused into one color that held all—

  With a lightless flash and an earsplitting shriek of backlash, the Darkbolt recoiled upon itself.

  The mirror… dissolved.

  The Link was gone, and so was the Dome of Protection. The shields vanished beneath Kellen’s grasp, and with them, his need to hold them. Suddenly alone in his own skin, Kellen tried to take a step, and went sprawling. Without the spell to concentrate on, all that was left was the pain: he felt drained— unnaturally drained—as if his body had given up more than it could safely give, and he hurt from the energies he had forced through himself.

  Never be a High Mage… Kellen thought groggily.

  He tried to get to his knees, but he was too sick and dizzy to move.

  Cilarnen—Jermayan—I have to get up—

  “Stay down. It’s all right. I know what they want,” someone—Idalia?—said. “I know what they’re doing.”

  —«♦»—

  DARKNESS transmuted to Light fountained forth from the obsidian bowl, shattering it into a thousand razor shards that embedded themselves in the Demon Queen’s flesh. Far worse than that was the backlash of her spell—Savilla had struck against the hated Enemy with all her might, and her own power had turned against her to strike her down. Drained of power, she lay insensible until Prince Zyperis found her.

  It was he who carried her back to her resting chamber in secret, who drew the stone shards from her flesh and tenderly sucked each wound clean.

  “Rest, darling Mama,” he said lovingly. “Soon you will be strong again.”

  —«♦»—

  PRINCE Zyperis regarded his mother with every expression of tenderness— and why not? For the first time in his life, he had seen her helpless and vulnerable.

  For now, it was their secret—and one Zyperis intended to share with no one else. But secrets were power among the Endarkened… and now he knew how Yethlenga had died: by the power of the Wild Magic and the High Magick combined.

  It was a fearful thing to know that the puling creatures of the Light could slay them—they, who were meant to live forever, by the favor of He Who Is!

  On the other hand, it was also… an opportunity.

  He had not been ready to exploit it this time, nor had Queen Savilla been te weak enough. But if he arranged matters properly—if he made sure that the Wildmages’ pet High Mage flourished—

  Then perhaps his beloved mother could meet with a timely accident the next time she faced the forces of the Light.

  And there would be a new King in the World Without Sun.

  —«♦»—

  THE cost of the spell to see into Armethalieh had been higher than any of them had imagined. No one had died, but that was as much as anyone could say. If there had been an attack in its aftermath, the army would have been slaughtered, for of those who had shared in the price, many had fainted where they stood, and the rest were too weak to as much as lift a sword. It would be sennights before the army was able to fight at full strength once more.

  Those who had not shared in the spell-price—and it was fortunate that so many had been exempted—found themselves occupied caring for those who had—helping the troops from the field around the ice-pavilion, and then returning to carry away the unconscious Wildmages and Cilarnen. Shalkan, too, had been found unconscious, guarded by the rest of the unicorn herd until a Healer could be brought to help him.

  —«♦»—

  SOMEHOW the Demons—not the Mages—had seen the spell. And had managed to turn it against them. If Cilarnen had not been here—if Ancaladar had not granted him the power he had needed to use his magick—if he and Jermayan and Kellen had not somehow been able to fuse their powers and Shalkan had not added his own unique power to the lot…

  She would be dead, and the Wildmages linked to her so mind-blasted that they might never have been able to serve the Wild Magic again. Cilarnen… she was not sure what would have happened to him. Nothing good.

  If and if and if. But all had gone as the Wild Magic willed.

  Their spell-shields had protected her—it was why she was still standing. And now—as soon as there was someone conscious to tell it to—she would be able to tell what she had learned.

  Tears of fear and frustration gathered in Idalia’s eyes as she thought of what she had seen in the mirror.

  —«♦»—

  SHE was able to speak to Redhelwar that evening, though the Army’s General was still confined to his bed. She summarized what she had learned through the spell.

  “And soon the human City will be theirs, and all its Mages,” Redhelwar said, his voice flat with exhaustion and grief. “As Kellen said: there was something They needed before They were willing to move openly.”

  “They don’t have it yet,” Idalia said. And I pray to the Gods of the Wild Magic we can keep Them from getting it.

  —«♦»—

  IT was the next day before she dare
d to try to wake Kellen—even Jermayan, with Ancaladar’s inexhaustible vitality to draw upon, still slept—but Kellen had to know what she knew as soon as possible. They had to plan.

  —«♦»—

  “DON’T wake him, Idalia,” Isinwen begged as she entered Kellen’s pavilion. The Elven Knight was sitting cross-legged beside the sleeping pallet, though he looked as if he ought to be in one himself. The pavilion was warm; obviously Isinwen was here to see that the brazier remained full and lit.