When Darkness Falls

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Then I shall leave you to it, and take my old bones to their rest,” Wirance said, getting to his feet. “Mind that you do not do too much too soon.”

  “As if I could do anything at all,” Cilarnen said, when Wirance had gone. His good humor had vanished as if it had never been, and the abrupt change startled Kellen. “I had nearly forgotten … seeing all this … what good will all the knowledge in the world do me without the power to cast my spells? I cannot forever be relying upon Ancaladar’s power.”

  “No,” Kellen agreed. The dragon had loaned his power to Cilarnen’s Shielding spell to save all their lives, but Ancaladar was understandably touchy about being regarded as nothing more than a living storage battery. And besides, so far as Kellen knew, Ancaladar was only supposed to be able to express his magic through his Bonded—Jermayan. They had all been linked together in the Spell of Kindol-hinadetil’s Mirror, which explained, Kellen supposed, why Ancaladar had been able to loan Cilarnen his power. But that would hardly work as a regular solution.

  “But the Wild Magic has arranged for you to gain the spellbooks you need to study the High Magick,” Kellen said, “so obviously it wants you to be a High Mage. And that means you will find a way to power your spells, when the time comes.”

  Cilarnen regarded him as if he’d lost his wits. “‘The Wild Magic has arranged,’” he quoted. “The Wild Magic didn’t arrange anything. Kindolhinadetil made the Wildmages a gift of books from his library.”

  “Which only you can use,” Kellen pointed out. “And which are exactly the books you need. That’s how the Wild Magic works.”

  Cilarnen shook his head, plainly unconvinced.

  “Have you eaten?” Kellen asked, changing the subject. “Because I haven’t, and I’m hungry.” Without waiting for an answer, he got to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

  The kitchen staff knew him by sight; he’d barely opened his mouth before he was handed a heavily-laden tray. Hot cider, hot stew, several stuffed buns, and a large mug of Winter Spice tea as well. He took the tray back to the table.

  Cilarnen was being as stubborn as … as an Elf. Why wouldn’t he admit what was so obvious to Kellen—that the books were here because the Wild Magic willed it so? The Elves of Ysterialpoerin understood humans about as well as a cat understood maths; it was highly unlikely (in Kellen’s opinion) that Ysterialpoerin’s Viceroy would have simply decided to empty his library of every book Cilarnen would find useful and hand them over without the Wild Magic being involved somehow.

  And it wasn’t as if Cilarnen had never seen the Wild Magic at work. He’d seen Wirance casting spells at Stonehearth. He’d been part of the Spell of Kindolhinadetil’s Mirror. He knew it was real.

  But it functions very differently from the High Magick he’s used to, Kellen reminded himself. The High Magick is mechanical, like—like a machine. The Wild Magic is alive; we speak to it, and it speaks to—and through—us. You remember when the Books came to you, and you felt the difference for the first time. But Cilarnen is not called to the Wild Magic. He cannot feel what a Wildmage feels.

  He set the tray down on the table.

  “Do you really think your—the Wild Magic arranged for me to have these books?” Cilarnen asked doubtfully.

  “Yes, I do,” Kellen said honestly, picking up a bun and biting into it.

  “I think you’re mad,” Cilarnen said simply. “A magic that thinks—that wants things …” He took a deep breath. “But I know there is a Wild Magic. And you haven’t been wrong so far. And the books are here, and they’re what I need. I suppose it doesn’t matter what I believe about how they got here. Now all I have to do is study them. And learn in a few sennights what ought to take me years.”

  There was a grim note in his voice, and that made Kellen take a moment to think about what Cilarnen was intending to do.

  The study of the High Magick was dangerous and fraught with peril. All of his Mage-teachers had said that so often—and in so many different ways—that Kellen had simply started ignoring it years before he’d been Banished. His own lessons had been merely boring, not particularly hazardous.

  Of course, he’d never gotten beyond Student Apprentice work.

  The look he must have had on his face made Cilarnen laugh out loud.

  “Oh, Kellen, if you tell me it will be dangerous I promise I will get Kardus to throw you into the nearest snowbank! I am not planning to practice in the middle of the camp, I promise you—I think that might only do The Enemy’s work for him! No, when the time comes I will find a place that is safely out of the way—I think that ice-house your Elven Mage built for your working will do, as I am sure it is not going to melt any time soon. And wards are simple, and can be built up over several days.

  “But there are things I must know, especially now that we know that Anigrel is Their agent. He meant me to escape my Banishing alive, and with my Magegift intact. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Kellen said slowly. It was a puzzle that needed more thought than any of them had been able to devote to it. “You aren’t Tainted in any way. Shalkan—Idalia—Vestakia—they all agree on that. And I would trust any one of them with my life. With all our lives.”

  “But there are other ways of tampering with a mind—as you well know,” Cilarnen answered bleakly. He would not meet Kellen’s eyes. They were both thinking of Magecraft that owed nothing to Demontaint—the High Mage’s ability to remove memories, and even implant false ones, seamlessly and unde-tectably. It had been done to Kellen when he was a child, to erase his memories of his sister.

  If Anigrel had done it to Cilarnen—with the High Magick—there was no way for either of them to know. Wild Magic would not detect the alteration.

  “I know my Magegift was suppressed, until seeing that Thing at Stonehearth made it come back. I want to know why—and what else might have been done to me. And I will discover a way to be of some use to you all—without taking that which can only be freely given. I swear it by the Eternal Light,” Cilarnen vowed.

  “If anyone can—in or out of Armethalieh—it’s you,” Kellen said.

  He was sure of that—Cilarnen had abandoned none of the good things about Armethalieh, but somehow he seemed able to cast off much of what was hidebound and bad. If anyone could manage to look at the High Magick in a new way, and find some way to use it, even here, it was Cilarnen Volpiril.

  “Now eat something.” Kellen pushed one of the stuffed buns across the table.

  AFTER they’d both eaten—Kellen bullied Cilarnen into making a proper meal—he helped the young High Mage carry his library to his new quarters.

  Cilarnen was still living in the Centaur encampment, but now he had what Kellen unconsciously thought of as “proper” accommodations: one of the Elven pavilions. It looked as if it had formerly belonged to one of the Healers, for even in the dark and the snow Kellen could see that its surface was covered with some sort of design, though he could not make out precisely what it was.

  “Well, come in,” Cilarnen said when Kellen automatically stopped at the threshold.

  I’ve spent much too long with the Elves, Kellen thought ruefully to himself. Their ways were starting to seem automatic to him, to the point that it did not occur to him to enter a dwelling-place without being expressly invited. He followed Cilarnen inside.

  The interior of the pavilion was much like his own—though of course, having been a Healer’s pavilion, it was slightly larger. A brazier had been left burning, and it was … well, it was as warm as the pavilions ever got.

  Cilarnen set his armful of books down on the nearest chest and motioned for Kellen to do the same with his own burden. He kindled a spill from the brazier and lit the hanging lamps by hand, shrugging apologetically.

  “I’m no better off,” Kellen told him. “I couldn’t even cast Coldfire in the caverns today.”

  Cilarnen smiled in acknowledgment. “What will we do, Kellen?” he asked seriously.

  There were too many possible answers to that qu
estion.

  “The best we can,” Kellen answered. “There is hope, you know. They would not be working so hard to convince us there was none if that was not the case.”

  “I think you truly believe that,” Cilarnen said after a moment. “And, for what it’s worth, I think … I don’t care whether you’re right or not. I’m going to believe you.”

  “Thanks … I think,” Kellen answered. “Now you should get some rest. I certainly intend to.”

  Cilarnen looked longingly toward the pile of books, then sighed. “I suppose you’re right. I won’t become a Master Mage in one night.”

  “Sleep well,” Kellen answered, stepping from the tent.

  THE next morning, after checking with the Captain of the Day Watch to see what duties might be required of his troop, Kellen saddled Firareth and went in search of Jermayan. Though the Elven Knight had quarters within the camp itself, he rarely used them, preferring to spend his time with Ancaladar, in the ice-pavilion he had built near the edge of the forest to shelter the great black dragon from the wind and the storm. Kellen was fairly sure that Ancaladar didn’t feel the cold—at least not the way he did, or even Shalkan did—but nobody liked to be crusted in ice and buried in snow if there was any way to avoid it. And Jermayan and Valdien certainly did not.

  But when Kellen reached the ice-pavilion, it was deserted. Nor was Valdien awaiting his master’s return in the stabling Jermayan had built to shelter the Elven destrier from the storm. That implied to Kellen that wherever Jermayan was, he did not expect to return soon.

  He glanced up at the sky, squinting against the ice-laden wind. Not the best weather for flying, and the clouds were low; he doubted that the two of them were on patrol. To see the ground, Ancaladar would have to fly beneath the cloud-cover, so low that he’d be constantly at the mercy of the strong winds of the lower air.

  Perhaps Idalia would know where they were.

  Kellen turned Firareth’s head back toward the camp.

  “HE has gone to Lerkalpoldara to begin the evacuation that Andoreniel ordered,” Idalia said when Kellen finally tracked her down. “They left last night, when the winds dropped. I do not know when he will return—sennights, perhaps, as Ancaladar cannot carry very many passengers at a time, but no other way is actually safe.”

  Kellen took a deep breath. He hadn’t realized until just this moment how much he’d wanted to talk things over with Jermayan and get his opinion of how matters stood.

  “You look like you’ve just lost your last friend,” Idalia said. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Kellen shrugged. “I’d wanted Jermayan’s advice. We can’t move all the Allied women and children to the Crowned Horns, and if they can’t all go, moving any of them there is going to open a pretty ugly can of worms, as the Mountainborn say. But we can’t just leave them without protection, especially when we have some. So I was going to ask Jermayan what he thought.”

  Idalia considered for a moment. “Well, you’re right,” she said after a pause. “And they can’t move in winter anyway, but that isn’t the point, really. They need to know we’re trying to help. That will give them—everyone, really—the courage to hold out until spring, when they can move.”

  “Idalia, when is spring?” Kellen asked. He knew how long a year was, of course, but seasonal changes were still largely a mystery to him.

  Idalia laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “I sometimes forget what a sheltered life you’ve led! The Longest Night is less than a moonturn away—that’s the midpoint of winter, though really, there are more cold days after it than before it. But four moonturns after that—at least in Sentarshadeen—the trees will be setting new leaves and it will be the middle of spring plowing season in the Wild Lands.” Her expression turned dark. “At least, it will be if the weather runs the way it has in previous years.”

  And assuming any of us is there to plow. Kellen didn’t say that aloud. Four moonturns—almost five? If the war went on that long, he hated to imagine what they’d be doing then.

  Would it take that long for Anigrel to persuade Armethalieh to open its gates to the Demons?

  And if, against all odds, they could convince the City to come in on the Allied side …

  Then the war might be considerably longer than a few moonturns. According to what he’d learned at the House of Sword and Shield, the Great War had lasted most of a century, from the first Endarkened attacks to what everyone had thought was their ultimate defeat.

  “Well, that’s not so long to wait,” Kellen said, trying to put a good face on things. “I’m sure the Mountainborn and the Wildlanders can hold out where they are against whatever They intend to do that long if we can convince them we have a plan to help them as soon as the weather turns.” All I need to do is come up with one.

  “If anybody can think of something the Elves are likely to miss, it’s you, brother mine,” Idalia said reassuringly. “Now scat—unless you want to help me roll bandages, count out medicines, or deal with the rest of the decidedly non-magical scutwork that goes with being a Healer.” She grinned impishly. “Or you could go help Cilarnen study to become a High Mage.”

  “Gods of the Wild Magic forefend!” Kellen swore feelingly. “That idiocy makes my head hurt! If you want to do magic, why not just do it, instead of consulting a bunch of books about the right time and hour to do a spell, and locking yourself away from everything in the world that’s truly magical?” He knew he sounded just like Cilarnen when Cilarnen was talking about the Wild Magic, but he couldn’t help it. Even the thought of High Magick made him want to run away and bury his head in the snow.

  “If I knew the answer to that, Kellen, I’d probably be a High Mage—assuming, of course, I’d had the great good fortune to be born male, since “everybody knows’ that women can’t do magic,” Idalia said. “Now scat. I have work to do, and I’m sure you do, too.”

  And on that note, Kellen had no choice but to take his leave.

  THIS was the work he’d been born for.

  Cilarnen barely noticed the cold, or the moan of the wind whipping around his pavilion. He’d been appalled by it when he’d first seen it—pale yellow, and covered with an intricate design of birds and flowers that made it look like nothing in the world so much as a vulgar serving woman’s shawl. Now the only thing that mattered to him was that the color let in a lot of light.

  The books Kindolhinadetil had sent were spread over every available surface. He’d discovered that he only had to ask for things to be given them—providing they were available in the camp, of course—and so he had a thick sheaf of loose sheets of vellum on which he was making careful notes, both of things he would need for the work to come, and of notes from his reading.

  He had so many questions! But there was no one at all to ask. If the answers could not be found among these books, he must do without them.

  And he could not do without them.

  I cannot do the Great Conjurations—they require a full working Circle of thirteen High Mages all performing their parts—but there are so many other spells I can do. Or I could do, if I had the power!

  And, strangely, there were other spells that he thought he could manage now, spells that only seemed to require a Mage’s own personal power, but that were in the books among advanced—and even proscribed—magicks. Spells of scrying and divination.

  Why? Because whoever did them would see things that the High Council didn’t approve of? Or because they’re dangerous? The books don’t say. They expect you to know. And I don’t…

  He’d awoken early that morning, too excited at the prospect of study to sleep. He’d dressed quickly, lit the lanterns and the braziers, and begun. Several hours later, hunger had driven him from his pavilion long enough to seek breakfast—though it was nearly midday by then—and he’d ensured that wouldn’t happen again by stuffing his tunic as full of rolls and pastries as he could.

  Everything was here. Everything. There was even a copy of the Art Khemitic—there was no way now to
gather the necessary materials, but if they only could, they could probably make enough umbrastone to destroy all the magick in Armethalieh.

  Kermis said that what the Art Khemitic was best for was getting blown up. I wonder if that would be useful?

  The thought of his friend—of all his friends—brought a momentary spasm of grief. What had happened to them? Were any of them still alive? If they were, did they even remember him? Or had their memories been edited—as Kellen Tavadon’s had once been—“for the good of the City”?

  Cilarnen set the book on the Art Khemitic aside. He would never know what had happened to them.

  Because of Lord Anigrel.

  Who had left him alive, his Magegift intact.

  Why?

  I have to know.

  A sharp and all-too-familiar stabbing ache began behind his eyes. He’d thought the headaches were gone forever when his suppressed Gift had resurfaced, but they’d returned as soon as he’d gotten to Ysterialpoerin.

  Maybe I’m just allergic to large quantities of Elves.

  Or maybe something else was trying to happen to him.

  Whatever it is, I’m not going to let it happen. Not if I have to find the spell that burns my Magegift out myself.

  Grimly, Cilarnen reached for another book.

  The answer was here somewhere.

  It had to be.

  Three

  The Winter City

  LERKALPOLDARA WAS THE northernmost of the Nine Cities, held in the icy grasp of winter for more than half the year. It lay between two mountain ranges, upon a vast tundral plain within the valley of Bazrahil that woke to fierce beautiful life in the short seasons of warmth.