“You will find that these caves are like no others you have ever seen,” Isinwen told her proudly. “It is a shame that their beauty must be destroyed, but Artenel will make them a fine home for those who must live beneath the earth.”
Kellen ignored both of them. He was concentrating on the caves themselves. And, if truth be told, he was trying not to think of Vestakia at all.
“I don’t feel anything yet,” she said, her voice bright with relief.
By now the caverns seemed almost as familiar to Kellen as Sentarshadeen or the Wildwoods had become. He and his Knights swept the entry level, carefully checking all the surviving side-galleries. Vestakia exclaimed in wonder at the wall carvings, though much of the finer detail on some of the reliefs was gone now, having simply crumbled away, and in the xaique cavern, many of the delicate carved figures lay upon the floor in pieces.
“No … nothing,” Vestakia said, when they stood upon the edge of the bridge, staring down at the Angarussa. Thanks to Wirance and the other Wildmages, the entire roof of the river-gallery glowed a pale azure now, giving it the odd illusion of being the open sky. For the first time, Kellen could see the details of the ceiling; it had been carefully worked to resemble something crafted of stone blocks and wooden beams, though the whole had been carved out of one piece of cavern rock. If he strained his eyes, he could see the individual blocks of stone, the bolts and plates that held the great rough-hewn beams of “wood” together, and even the subtle grain in the wood, just as if these were beams of ancient oak, worn and shrunken by Time.
Elves did nothing by halves.
“We should go down into the mines themselves, then,” Kellen said. “Unless you would rather do that tomorrow?”
“No,” Vestakia said with certainty. “I would much rather go to bed tonight knowing I never had to come down here again. It is the most beautiful cave I have ever been in … but it is still a cave.”
Kellen had only taken a quick tour of the lower levels the previous day, and was grateful he hadn’t had to fight down here, for in contrast to the main level, most of the open areas here were about the size of his bedroom back in Sentarshadeen, if that.
Some of them had been carved—apparently with whatever took the fancy of the unknown carver. Others had walls completely smooth, apparently still awaiting the inspiration of unknown hands. In a very few, the wall was rough, and an open vein could be seen within, from which the Coldfire roused faint glitterings, the only proof Kellen had yet come across that Halacira was, indeed, a jewel mine.
Without his Knight-Mage’s sense of direction—and the marks he had chalked upon the walls on an earlier visit—he might well have wandered down here forever, for each chamber led into the next with no pattern he could see.
At last they came to an opening in the floor.
Unlike the passage to this level, which had involved a staircase, there was only a wooden ladder leading down through the opening. The ladder was new—Artenel had just built it. The previous one—and Kellen had no doubt one had existed, and perhaps an entire wooden staircase—had been washed away in the flood, as well as whatever machines the Shadowed Elves had assembled.
“This leads to the deep mine,” Isinwen said apologetically, indicating the ladder.
“I’ve been down there,” Kellen said. “It’s pretty much one big cavern, and as far as I can tell, nothing can get in or out. We don’t have Coldlight down there yet, but the ladder’s stronger than it looks. Do you think you need to go down, or … ?”
Vestakia looked into the pit, and shuddered.
“How large is it?”
“You remember the village cavern at the first Enclave? The one at the bottom of the deep cavern? About that size. Maybe a little bigger.”
“Then I should be able to sense anything in it from here.”
Nevertheless, she got down on her hands and knees and peered down into the opening, as if she might be able to see something. Kellen shaped a small ball of Coldfire between his hands and sent it drifting past her, down into the cavern below.
Its light gave little illumination. Enough to show that water still lay in pools upon the unfinished rock here, for what Isinwen called the Deep Mine was Halacira as it must have been before the Elves began to improve the caverns. He sent the ball of light swooping and soaring through the darkness as Vestakia concentrated.
“There’s nothing,” she said at last, sitting back on her heels with a sigh of relief.
NOW that the caverns were cleared and guaranteed to be safe, Kellen could turn his mind to other matters. Providing Vestakia with a suitable escort—since she planned to seek out Shalkan—he went to see Cilarnen.
The young High Mage had recovered both from the effects of his first aerial journey, and from Idalia’s cordial. Kellen found him in his tent—one of the largest they had brought with them—unpacking his supplies and clucking over each one as if it were a newly-hatched chick.
“Kellen,” he said, in obvious pleasure. “Come to seek out the dreaded High Mage in his sanctum?”
“Come to talk,” Kellen said. “Providing we can do so privately.”
“That, at least, is simply managed,” Cilarnen said. “Though I am afraid more complex spells will take another day at least. It is as I feared: My apparatus has been detuned by the flight, and will all have to be reset. But my Wand, at least, is unscathed.”
He opened a long bone case—it had, Kellen suspected, originally been crafted as a scroll-case—and removed his wand. He’d done some work on the slender length of ash since Kellen had seen it last: It was now capped at each end with fine silver, and a narrow spiral of silver wrapped its entire length.
He raised it into the air and began to draw, murmuring under his breath. Glowing sigils, each in a dozen colors, appeared in the air and slowly faded. After he had drawn six of them in a circle around them both, he lowered his wand and replaced it in its case.
“There. No one will hear anything we say—or see our shadows, either. Though anyone who walks through the door of the tent will break the spell.”
“No one is likely to do that,” Kellen said. Anyone coming to the door of Cilarnen’s tent, and not receiving an invitation to enter, would simply go away again.
“Then we may speak privately. A useful spell, though a deal more useful, to my mind, in a place with doors that lock. Tea?”
“Since you offer so nicely.” Kellen smiled slightly. Apparently Cilarnen had picked up the Elves’ habit of accompanying every occasion with tea. “Cilarnen, do you know why you’re here?”
Cilarnen shrugged. “You needed me. We left in such a hurry, nobody had time to tell me anything else, and I was too busy packing to ask. But there’s something I must tell you, I think.
“You know that Anigrel meddled with my mind before I was Banished and made sure I escaped the Outlaw Hunt. We’d always wondered why. Well, I found out.”
Kellen tensed, ever-so-slightly. Cilarnen seemed oblivious.
“He wanted to find you. He knows you are his greatest enemy—or the greatest enemy of that which he serves. He knew that word would reach you, eventually, of a Banished ‘High Mage,’ alive in the Wild Lands, and we would meet. Perhaps he put a compulsion on me to find you, and the Demon raid just helped things along. Or maybe Kardus helped me because for some reason, your Wild Magic wanted it too. In any event, Anigrel left me my magick because he meant me to kill you with it. I think that’s the reason my headaches came back so strongly as soon as I saw you.”
“Cilarnen, why are you telling me this?” Kellen asked cautiously. His Knight-Mage powers gave him very little shielding against the sort of magical assault a High Mage could wield. On the other hand, he was physically stronger and faster than Cilarnen.
If it came to a fight.
“Because I looked for his tampering in my mind—and found it. He has no hold over me now,” Cilarnen said. “Of that I am certain.”
Could Kellen believe this? He wanted to. “Both Shalkan and Vestakia pron
ounced you free of Taint when you arrived,” Kellen pointed out.
“And so I was. And so I am,” Cilarnen said. “How do you think Anigrel moved undetected among the City Wards for all those years, yet still conspired with … Them? Until the very moment the spell saw its best chance of success, and woke into life, I would pass any test you set me. I did not know it myself—but I suspected. How not? Why else would I pass from Anigrel’s hands with my Gift intact—unless he foresaw a use for it later?”
Cilarnen’s words made sense. And Kellen was inclined to believe him. He would not have mentioned the matter at all—unless he were sure.
“So you are safe from him now?”
“I swear to it by the Light. And that will come as an unwelcome surprise for that upstart carrion-bird very soon, I hope. Kellen, I have scryed within the walls of the City, watched the Council at its deliberations. The Selken grain-ships will not come until spring. There is rationing in the City, and talk of sending the Militia out to seize the farmers’ stored provisions. Who knows how many—if any—will survive, if they are sent outside the walls? And Anigrel uses every death to fuel the terror of the Wildmages. I think he hopes to bring Lycaelon to consider … an alliance.”
“An alliance?” Kellen asked, temporarily diverted from the reason for which he had come. “With whom? He wouldn’t let the Elves into the City when Hyandur came; the Armethaliehans think the Centaurs are animals, and—”
“With Them,” Cilarnen said.
“He can’t,” Kellen said, aghast. “They can’t. They’d never consider it.”
“Frighten them enough, and they would,” Cilarnen said grimly. “They can change Their shape to look like anything—I’ve seen it. If Anigrel tampers with the Wards enough, the High Mages won’t have those to warn them. And anybody who disagrees with Anigrel or his Magewardens or Commons Wardens tends to just… vanish.”
Kellen emitted a low hiss of dismay. This was worse than he’d thought. “You’ve told Redhelwar all this?”
“Yes, of course, but I’m not sure he completely understands how bad the situation is,” Cilarnen said.
Elven emotions were hard for humans to read at the best of times. It was just as likely that Redhelwar understood exactly how bad the situation in Armethalieh was getting, and Cilarnen simply didn’t realize it.
But it made getting to Armethalieh more imperative than ever.
By now the kettle on the tea-brazier was bubbling violently. Cilarnen busied himself for a moment in preparing the pot, scooping in several measures of Armethaliehan Black and setting out two tall mugs that Kellen recognized as coming from his own supplies.
“It’s worse than you think,” Kellen said. “The reason you’re here is because Andoreniel is gravely ill with plague. Rochinuviel told me he’s too sick to give orders, and Ashaniel, who could rule in his place, is at the Fortress of the Crowned Horns and can’t return.”
“Can’t Redhelwar just take over?” Cilarnen asked.
“I don’t think so,” Kellen said cautiously. “If Andoreniel can’t make the decisions that affect the whole of the Elven Lands, his Council must do it—if any of them are still alive. Or, failing that, one of the other Viceroys, maybe. But I’m not sure.”
Cilarnen poured the water into the waiting pot, and stared at it as if he would find his answers there. When the tea was ready, he poured it, and spoke.
“So the army cannot—will not—act without orders from the King, or someone who speaks for him. And the King is ill. And you do not think that anyone but Andoreniel will do what needs to be done—which is go to Armethalieh as soon as we can, because from all you have told me, if They manage to make Their alliance with the City, we are all doomed. But Kellen, what do you want from me?”
“I know that the High Magick can heal. And you said yourself that you removed the geas Anigrel had placed upon you.”
Cilarnen flung his hands in the air in despair.
“Kellen, I am a half-trained High Mage, not the Eternal Light Itself! Andoreniel has plague—he is not—not a wall to blast down! I can do that! I barely undid what Anigrel had done to me without killing myself—I only tried because I was desperate. To Heal properly—that requires study of the body that I have not done, other High Mages working together to balance the spell-energies. I would be as likely to kill Andoreniel as cure him. Idalia is a great Wildmage Healer—Jermayan can do things with his magic that the entire College of High Mages could not imagine—this morning, he built a bridge across the Angarussa that looks now as if it has stood for a hundred years! And you’re asking me?”
“Yes,” Kellen said bluntly. “Because your magick, working with a Wildmage’s, can kill Them. And we all know that They have sent the plagues.”
“You’re a fool,” Cilarnen said.
“I have no choice,” Kellen answered. Though whether to be a fool, or to try anything he could think of, he wasn’t sure.
Cilarnen sighed. “I only hope it does not come to that. If it does, I shall try all I can. But I would rather not kill anyone. By accident,” he added.
Kellen realized then that Cilarnen had probably never killed anyone at all—unless you counted the Demon at Stonehearth that his spells had helped to destroy. Certainly, in the aftermath of the villages’ destruction, and in overseeing what the Demons had done to Nerendale, he had seen death in plenty, but it was not the same.
Even after all the deaths that had followed it, Kellen vividly remembered his reaction to the first death he had been personally responsible for. He would certainly be taking Cilarnen into the middle of battle. Would Cilarnen be able to do what was necessary when the time came?
“Cilarnen,” he said. “Idalia told me that you are drawing power off the Elven Land-Wards. If we did ride to Armethalieh—outside the Elven Lands—would you still be able to cast spells?”
Cilarnen looked thoughtful.
“I suppose I must see. There are … people … I can ask. Perhaps arrangements can be made. Certainly the ancient War Mages did not draw their power from the Elven Land-Wards.”
“See what you can find out. And one more thing. When the caverns are finished, there will be ventilation shafts. I need a way to keep … things from crawling down them. Things we don’t want.”
CILARNEN smiled, relieved that Kellen had finally set him a task within the scope of his abilities. “Now that is a simple matter, if you have stonecarvers with you. Simply carve as many cats, or rats, or ferrets as you like, even dogs—anything small enough to fit. I shall enchant them into golems, and they will watch over your airshafts forever.”
IDALIA and Jermayan did not return that evening, and Kellen hoped it was a good omen. He was certain that at least Jermayan and Ancaladar would have returned if the worst had happened.
As the camp settled into preparations for the evening meal, Kellen realized he had not seen Vestakia for several hours.
Not that he was looking for her, of course. And certainly, as far as the army had been able to determine, these woods were now safe. And Shalkan would not leave her alone.
Still, he would feel better knowing exactly where she was.
Great wet fluffy flakes of snow were falling as he wrapped his cloak around himself and set out in search of her. And Shalkan, of course. He barely noticed. Compared to the weather near Ysterialpoerin, it was almost warm.
As he’d expected, he found them in the Coldfire-lit grove. At least she wouldn’t freeze. Not with Shalkan to warm her.
He cleared his throat.
Both of them looked up.
“It’s dinnertime,” he said simply. “I’ve brought yours with me,” he added to Shalkan. Some fruit-stuffed buns, made with some of the dried fruit they’d gotten at Ondoladeshiron, and, of course, several bars of the eternal Elven journey-food.
“At least you don’t mean me to starve,” Shalkan said, switching his tail. “Vestakia has been telling me some very interesting things today. Things you should hear.”
“For that matter, I had
an interesting conversation with Cilarnen,” Kellen said. “But we can leave that for another time. What is your news?”
He unslung the bag from his shoulder and removed the contents, starting with the fruit buns. Shalkan always preferred to eat his dessert first.
“While you were gone, I spent a very long time trying to talk to the Crystal Spiders,” Vestakia said. “And so I got very good at listening. And I think, now, that I am hearing … other things. Things I am not truly meant to hear. I think … Kellen, I think I can hear my father’s mind.”
Kellen nearly dropped the fruit bun he was holding. Vestakia’s father was the Prince of Shadow Mountain.
“Oh?” he said, hoping his voice sounded noncommittal. First Cilarnen told him that he had been bespelled to be a magickal assassin, and now this.
“When I was trying to locate the last Enclave of the Shadowed Elves, I kept feeling, very strongly, that it must be far to the south. But the Crystal Spiders could not know that—they have no sense of direction at all!” she added, with a stifled giggle. “I came to realize I felt that because he knew where the last Enclave was. If I had only realized it sooner, I’m sure I could have found it faster. You see, now that They are so active in the world again, I feel Them everywhere now, all the time,” she added sadly. She rubbed her arms beneath her cloak, as if her skin crawled. “I can still tell when They are coming close, or when I come near to something Tainted, but the other is like a noise that will not stop.”
“Vestakia, you must do something about this,” Kellen said urgently. “You can’t go on like this. Idalia has drugs to shut down the magical senses—”
“Kellen, no. If I really can tell what he’s thinking, even just a little, we can use that! I think, I sense—” She put her hands to her temples and closed her eyes. “There’s something we can use, I know there is. He ought to be happy. Shouldn’t he? But I don’t feel anything like that.”
Shalkan cleared his throat meaningfully.
Kellen forced himself not to think. He fed Shalkan another fruit bun, then a journey-bar.
When Darkness Falls Page 39