When Darkness Falls

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I … yes. Of course. I thank you for your courtesy in telling me that which I did not know,” Kellen said.

  “You are a great leader, Kellen Knight-Mage,” Tametormo answered. “And I and my House shall honor you for that until the end of our days. Your name will never be forgotten, so long as the trees grow and the stars burn. But you will never be an Elf.”

  And I will never understand Elves, either.

  IT took them another half day to reach the place that Tametormo had spoken of, and just as he had said, there was a camp waiting there for them.

  It was small. There were no Healers’ pavilions, no row of tents for the Engineers, Armorers, and Artificers. No separate camp for the Centaurs and the Mountainfolk. There were only a few animals waiting in the horselines, though Kellen saw wagons of fodder and a proper herd of remounts grazing out in the meadow.

  Most of the Elven Army, it was obvious, was already gone.

  Kellen led his troops around the edge of the camp, to the flat plain beyond. Redhelwar rode out to meet them.

  He looked at Kellen expectantly, and Kellen was suddenly very grateful for Tametormo’s words of advice. He turned Firareth about to face his command. There was a momentary flurry as the Elven Knights elegantly re-ordered their ranks, regarding him expectantly.

  What should he say?

  “It has been my honor to command you,” Kellen told them, standing in his stirrups and pitching his voice so that his words could be heard clearly. “You have done all I have asked of you, and done it well. I dismiss you now. Leaf and Star go with you.”

  There was a moment of stillness. And then, as simply as that, they were no longer an army. The Elves broke ranks, heading quietly for the horselines to unsaddle their mounts.

  Kellen turned to Redhelwar.

  “And I dismiss you, Kellen Knight-Mage. Our work here is over. In a day or two, those you have commanded will go to their homes, when they and their horses have rested. These tents will be struck, and in time, there will be no sign that there was ever an encampment here. Which is as it should be.

  “But you have a home to go to now. And you should seek it.”

  Kellen sighed. “I will. But… It would please me greatly to hear whether you have had any news that I have not heard.”

  Redhelwar met his gaze steadily. “Vestakia has returned to her home in Sentarshadeen. She is well, and spends much time assisting the Healers. We know not where Jermayan may be. I am sorry.”

  Kellen bowed his head, turned Firareth, and rode away.

  HIS destination was the stables at the House of Sword and Shield.

  It seemed like an eternity ago that Jermayan had first brought him here to study with Master Belesharon. He had destroyed the Black Cairn, discovered his own Gift, battled Master Belesharon’s Knights in the Teaching Circle and won. He had thought himself well-versed in the ways of the world, a seasoned warrior already.

  He’d had no idea.

  Kellen found an empty stall and untacked Firareth, brought him a bucket of oats and then brushed him while the destrier ate. Firareth had shed much of his winter coat in the past sennights, but the floor of the stall was still covered with fluffy puffs of tawny horsehair by the time Kellen was finished with his work. When they were both done, he put a hand on Firareth’s shoulder and urged the old warrior out into the sunlight. Time for Firareth to take a well-deserved rest, and idle in the sunlight and green grass, turned out to pasture among the other warhorses.

  Firareth regarded him curiously.

  “Well, go on,” Kellen said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Firareth tossed his head and trotted off toward a group of other destriers standing nearby. Kellen wasn’t at all surprised to see Valdien among them.

  “Well, here we are,” Shalkan said.

  “Here we are,” Kellen echoed.

  “You really ought to go home and have a bath,” the unicorn observed. “That armor’s much too hot for the season. When’s the last time you had it off, anyway?”

  “I can’t remember,” Kellen said. Probably at the last village they’d visited, and that had been over a moonturn ago. Well, he took it off at night. Most of it, anyway.

  And it was hot.

  He reached out a hand—he’d taken off his gauntlets in order to groom Firareth. Shalkan slipped his neck beneath Kellen’s palm, and Kellen stroked his fingers through the unicorn’s downy coat.

  “Do unicorns ever shed?”

  Shalkan just snorted, not answering. “Go home,” he repeated. “Assuming, of course, that you still know the way. And try not to be surprised if you see unfamiliar faces in the streets. Armethalieh—among others—has sent a delegation of honor to the ceremony.”

  “Armethalieh?”

  Kellen could not have been more stunned if Shalkan had told him that the Demons had sent a delegation.

  “The look on your face is priceless.”

  Kellen had to smile. “Well, Cilarnen did say he was going to change things.”

  “And he is. And for the better.”

  “When is… ?”

  “The day after tomorrow. If you hadn’t gotten back when you did, they were going to send someone out to look for you.”

  Kellen sighed. “I suppose I’ll see you around?”

  “I certainly won’t leave without telling you, after all we’ve been through together.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kellen turned and started walking up toward the city.

  BY the time he reached his house, it was dusk. He saw a few people along the way—only Elves—and he’d never been more grateful for Elven politeness, for nobody stopped him or tried to speak to him. He had, he realized, absolutely no idea of what to do with himself. Oh, there was the ceremony to honor Idalia. He hated the idea of it, but he knew he had to attend, because it was important. But after that?

  His Naming Day anniversary would be in a few months, he realized—not that the Elves celebrated such events, he suspected.

  He’d be eighteen.

  It was the beginning of most people’s lives, and … not that his was over, but …

  He just felt as if he’d already done everything he was supposed to do with his life, and that there was nothing left to do.

  He reached the door of his house. To his surprise, there were lanterns outside, and they were lit. He stopped, frowning in confusion.

  This was his house. He was certain of it. The Elves certainly wouldn’t have given it to someone else.

  As he paused on the doorstep, hesitating, the door opened.

  A slender elegant Elven man stood there. He looked familiar. As he saw Kellen, his face took on a pleased expression.

  “I See you, Kellen. I had expected you long ago. Come, enter. You will be hungry, and weary from the road. All awaits you, just as you would wish it.”

  Suddenly Kellen realized who this was.

  Vertai.

  Many moonturns ago, when Idalia had left their house to go and live with Jermayan, Kellen had somehow, suddenly and mysteriously, acquired a sort of servant—or assistant, he had never quite been able to figure out Vertai’s relationship to him, and Vertai had been expert at not answering that question. But since—at that time, and probably still—Kellen had possessed no ability to keep his wardrobe in order, his larder stocked, or even cook and clean, Vertai had taken on all of those tasks, generally performing them while Kellen was away receiving his lessons at the House of Sword and Shield.

  “I See you, Vertai. And thank you,” he added, bowing. “I am grateful for your aid.”

  He walked inside.

  “Your robe is laid out, and I shall prepare tea. Perhaps you would care to suggest a suitable blend.”

  “I am sure that you will know a tea appropriate to the season.”

  He walked into his room, surprised at how small it seemed. And not surprised to find several things from his packs already neatly laid out in the appropriate places. Apparently his luggage had preceded him and already been unpack
ed.

  He removed his armor and set it aside. Cleaning it could wait until he bathed. He unbraided his hair—it had gotten very long over the past moonturns—and combed it out. Then he put on the robe that was laid out for him on the bed—relieved to see that for once it wasn’t green, but a pleasing fawn color—and matching house-boots and went out into the main room.

  The tea—thanks to the Elven “small magics”—was already waiting for him. Kellen picked up the cup and sipped gratefully. The taste was unfamiliar, yet soothing. He remembered a conversation he had once had—it seemed so long ago!—with Dionan and Redhelwar about brewing and blending tea. They’d said the teas of springtime were subtle. This must be one of them.

  “I thank you for this, Vertai,” he said.

  “I shall prepare your evening meal, and then I shall depart to my own home. Tomorrow, you must expect a visit from Tengitir. Your robes for the ceremony are prepared, but they will need a final fitting.”

  Kellen tried not to sigh. If he’d needed anything to convince him that the war was over and everything was swiftly returning to normal, a visit from the Elven seamstress who specialized in clothing for the non-Elven was definitely it.

  “I shall attempt to conduct myself properly,” he said.

  “You will rejoice to know, as we all do, that Andoreniel is in the fullness of health—indeed, that all who suffered the Shadow’s Kiss have recovered completely. He has asked after you, and hopes you will come to see him when you may.”

  That was certainly good news. Kellen had to think a moment before he could frame his next question politely—which was to say, in a form that was not a question. After so many moonturns of free-and-easy War Manners, it would take some time to settle fully back into formal Elven politeness again.

  “There are many people living at the Fortress of the Crowned Horns,” he said at last.

  “The snow is still deep in the mountains, so I have heard. Andoreniel intends to send a convoy to them within the sennight, bringing news of our victory, and conveying all within back to their own homes.”

  And undoubtedly, Kellen thought, they would all be very grateful to go there.

  TWO days later, the nobility and the aristocracy of every race in the land gathered together to bid their last farewell to Idalia.

  Andoreniel and the Viceroys of the Nine Cities were there: Vanantiriel, Viceroy of Windalorianan; Kindolhinadetil, Viceroy of Ysterialpoerin; Magarabeleniel, Vicereign of Lerkalpoldara; Rochinuviel, Vicereign of Ondoladeshiron; Arelin, Viceroy of Deskethomaynel; Attindorande, Viceroy of Valwendigorean; Falmielandiel, Vicereign of Realthataladon; and Sildonaure, Viceroy of Thulta-foniseen.

  Though several of their cities lay now in Dark-blasted ruins that would take years to rebuild, and too many Elves to count lay dead, the Elves showed no sign that this was anything but a great victory, in their manner or their bearing. For the third time in their long history, they had faced the power of Shadow Mountain and broken it—perhaps, this time, forever.

  Several High Chiefs of the Mountainborn were also here to pay their respects. The Mountainborn had no King, but in his time with the army, Kellen had learned a little of their ways. The families were organized into clans, and the clans gave their allegiance to chiefs, whose ultimate purpose was to settle those disputes which could not be settled by any other means. Six Chiefs of the Mountainborn stood here today—all who could be spared from the work of rebuilding their land that the Mountainborn had before them. They were dressed in their finest garments, soft embroidered woolen tunics and trousers, long coats, wide-brimmed hats trimmed with bright feathers.

  Kellen remembered wearing Mountainborn clothing. Shalkan had particularly hated the hat.

  The Lostlanders did not organize into clans as the Mountainborn did; in the harsh northern land where they had lived until Atroist had brought them south, the Wildmages had been, not only their sole defense against the nearly-constant Demon raids, but the final authority in all matters. To this final ceremony they had sent Feyrt, their Belrix—War King—with his surviving council of Wildmages.

  The Lostlanders stood with the Centaurs—which made sense, since the Lostlanders intended to remain in the Wildlands and live among the Centaurs and the human farmers. Kellen recognized Kreylmedd, who had been warchief of all the centaurs in Redhelwar’s camp. The grizzled old veteran had lost an arm in the fighting, and many new scars made white streaks across his chestnut hide, but he had survived. There were about a dozen Centaurs present, men and women both: some who had served in the army, some who were leaders of their home villages.

  And, as Shalkan had warned him, there was a delegation of High Mages from Armethalieh, including not only the current Arch-Mage …

  But the former Arch-Mage.

  Lycaelon Tavadon.

  His father.

  Kellen did not know what he expected to feel when he gazed on his father’s face again. Shock? Anger? Triumph? In fact, he felt nothing, not even relief that he felt nothing. Lycaelon looked terribly ravaged; his hair had gone quite white, and a young man in gray Mage-robes stayed beside him at all times to offer support.

  The ceremony itself took place at the edge of the Flower Forest. It looked more vibrant than Kellen could remember ever having seen it.

  In fact, it looked … larger.

  Yes, there was definitely new growth there at the edges.

  The Flower Forest was expanding. Another good sign that their victory had been decisive.

  He had not yet spoken to Andoreniel, a lapse in manners he knew he’d have to take care of as soon as the ceremony was over. He had sent a message to the House of Leaf and Star yesterday, requesting to be excused from any active participation in the ceremony today.

  He couldn’t think of anything he wanted to say.

  He was glad they were all alive. He was glad the Demons were gone. He knew—he knew—that Idalia’s death was not too high a price to pay for that.

  He just couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

  ANDORENIEL had given his permission, of course, though naturally Kellen still had to attend. So now here Kellen stood, among all the other dignitaries, wearing elaborate robes of green and silver—fortunately, Vertai had been there at his house this morning to help him dress, or he’d still be trying to figure out how to get into them—standing beside Redhelwar, who was equally magnificent in red and gold.

  One good thing about all this was that Lycaelon probably wouldn’t even recognize him.

  Beyond the ranks of those who had a formal place in the ceremony stood those who had come just to be there. Most of them were the citizens of Sentarshadeen—all dressed in white—but at the edges of the crowd, Kellen saw some distinctly human faces, and a few Centaurs as well. Probably there were even some Otherfolk here, if he took the care to look closely.

  Everyone had loved Idalia.

  He turned his attention to the table set just outside the Flower Forest. It stood upon a pure white carpet—the first he had seen anywhere in the Elven Lands—and the table was covered in a white drape. Upon the table stood a green glass lantern, similar to the ones the Elves hung outside their homes at night.

  Andoreniel came and stood behind the table. He placed his hands upon the lantern, and suddenly it was lit—somehow without magic, Kellen knew.

  The people gathered in witness, already quiet, stilled even further.

  “We have come to say our last farewell to Idalia Wildmage, Beloved of the Elves and of all, who stood between us and the Shadow, and through her will, her courage, and her grace, allowed the Light to prevail once more,” Andoreniel said.

  THERE was a brief ceremony, silently conducted by Andoreniel and Rochinuviel. It almost seemed like a dance. It reminded Kellen, just a little, of what Cilarnen had done with the unicorns outside the walls of Armethalieh, though he felt no magic in it, only a faint sense of peace. At the end of it, the two of them carried the lantern into the Flower Forest.

  Is that it? Kellen wondered. But nobody seeme
d to be moving.

  When they returned, a new air of expectancy suffused the gathering.

  “Now let us recall her life,” Andoreniel said.

  KELLEN realized he had subconsciously been expecting something like this—and dreading it. One by one, representatives from the gathered dignitaries advanced to the now-empty table to speak of Idalia, and what she had meant to them. Kearn was there—he spoke of his long friendship with Idalia, of how she had always traded with him sharply but fairly.

  An ancient Lostlander Wildmage—a white-haired woman, quite blind—spoke on behalf of Atroist, sharing his memories of Idalia. Atroist, Kellen discovered, had been her grandson.

  Vestakia spoke, telling them all of the first time she had met Idalia, how Idalia had taken her into this very Flower Forest to discover whether her half-Demon heritage would be a threat to them. She spoke of Idalia’s unfailing—and unflinching—kindness and friendship to her, from the first moment she had seen her.

  Though Vestakia’s appearance caused some consternation among those who had never seen her before, there was no fear. Everyone knew that the Demons were defeated and gone.

  Others spoke, though briefly.

  Cilarnen spoke, telling not only of the kindness he had received from Idalia, but of how much he had learned from her.

  “—for she was the first true Wildmage I had ever known. I am a High Mage of Armethalieh, a Master of the Art of High Magick. All my life I had been raised to think of the Wild Magic as something little different than the Dark-magery itself, and Wildmages as little better than Demonspawn. Idalia did not even bother to tell me it wasn’t so. She simply showed me it wasn’t, by everything she was and did.”

  And then, to Kellen’s vast and unsettled surprise, Lycaelon Tavadon came forward to speak. The young gray-robed Mage by his side assisted him to the table; when he stepped away, Lycaelon leaned upon it heavily.