Who would have thought that both of Alance’s brats would show the Taint? Since Kellen’s—The Outlaw’s—Banishment, Lycaelon had been harder than ever to deal with. Anigrel could blot out the man’s petty life with a lifted finger, but every day he was forced to pretend that he was a mere Journeyman-Undermage, years away from attaining the exalted dignity and power of a High Mage. If not for the brat’s defection to the ancient enemy …
Anigrel gritted his teeth in annoyance at the lost opportunity that Kellen’s departure represented, and kept himself from blotting the parchment beneath his hand with an effort. If he had only managed to get Kellen under his thumb, and then corrupt him utterly, what a prize for his Dark Lady the boy would have been!
“There are no failures, only opportunities,” she had told him when he had told his Dark Lady what had happened, making his report as he did once each month at moondark. It was the greatest risk he took, the one moment of unhallowed magic that the Council might conceivably detect. But his talismans, spells, and wards protected him, and in all the years he had played his double-game, he had so far escaped discovery.
“Lycaelon is vulnerable now. Play upon his fears, make him believe that his son could not have escaped him without being cunning as a serpent and powerful as a Demon Prince. He wishes to make Armethalieh strong; foster those ambitions and make them synonymous with his own prosperity. Make the Golden City hated by all the world.”
Her mind-voice was like a caress, wakening a hunger that must go eternally unsatisfied, until he could rise high enough in the ranks of the Mages to slake his lesser appetites in the poorest quarters of the City.
Or until the City fell.
“Soon, my impatient love,” his Dark Queen purred in his mind. “Serve me well and you will have all you desire …”
And so, with an idle comment here, an innocent observation there, Anigrel had worked day and night to turn Lycaelon’s anger at his son’s defection outward to a hatred of the Free Borderers, and to fan a furious envy at Mage Breulin’s successful policies of enclosure into a more grandiose plan of his own. That Lycaelon’s agents had received the bit of fortunate intelligence about “The Outlaw’s” location at the most opportune moment to make an otherwise harmless boy into a nightmare menace was no surprise to Anigrel; he knew perfectly well who had given it to them, and why. The Dark Lady had agents everywhere, and if she could not have Kellen corrupted and in her power, she would use his mere presence on earth to serve her in other ways. Anigrel knew without envy that he was but a small component in a glorious Working, so that one day the Tree of Night would flower and spread its branches against the sky, blotting out the sun once more, this time forever.
And to his well-concealed relief, at last Lycaelon had taken his careful hints to heart. When the news about The Outlaw came, Lycaelon set Anigrel to immediately preparing the preliminary paperwork for a Scouring Hunt of enormous proportions. The Arch-Mage explained nothing, of course, but after laying so much groundwork, Anigrel didn’t find it difficult to guess what lay in Lycaelon’s mind.
Soon Lycaelon will come and tell you that he has proposed a glorious campaign against the east to extend the boundaries of the City all the way to the High Hills—incidentally running that dreadful and dangerous enemy, The Outlaw, to earth—all in the name of Purity, and that the Council has given it their full support. Be sure to act surprised, Anigrel told himself mockingly.
Chapter Sixteen
Revelry and Ashes
THE NEXT FORTNIGHT was a desperate race against time. Every village in the Western Hills was busy with harvest and had few people to spare for other tasks, but everyone who could be spared was sent with messages to still other villages and far-flung crofts, warning that Armethalieh was extending its reach into the Western Hills.
Kellen had gone back to Merryvale a few days later to meet with the Council of Elders. He spent two days there, explaining in detail what Armethalieh’s rule would mean to them—not only the taxes and tithes, the restrictive laws about what you could buy and sell, but the fact that nonhuman folk weren’t welcome in Armethaliehan lands at all, and mixed villages like Merryvale were considered an abomination by the Priests of the Light.
“But … why?” Master Eliron and the others kept asking him, and all Kellen could do was shake his head and repeat over and over: “That’s just the way it is.”
The debate went on endlessly, as if the people of Merryvale simply couldn’t comprehend what he told them. They probably couldn’t, he reflected. It must seem utter madness to people who had lived as they had for so many decades.
“But surely—if Armethalieh is a city of Law—we, too, will have rights,” the Mayor said hopefully. “We will send the City a petition protesting this violation of our sovereignty …”
“And I’m sure they will receive it, Master Badelz, and perhaps even read it. And they will tell you that the Law of the City is for the good of all, and that your rights begin and end with doing as you are told by the High Council. They will tell you that the Otherfolk have no rights, because they are not human, and the first thing they will demand is that you cast them out of Merryvale. And if you do not do as you are told, they will treat you as an enemy. Please, sir, remember that they have armed men, trained in fighting, to enforce their rule. What do you have? And they have High Mages, who—well, their magic doesn’t require the prices that Wild Magic does; they can make it do anything they want to. You’ve heard about the Outlaw Hunt—Idalia says a Scouring Hunt is a hundred times worse. They’re going to set it on all Wildmages, and all Otherfolk. And if you try to resist them they’ll set it on you humans.” He swallowed hard. “I am … I was the son of the Arch-Mage, Master Badelz. I know every Mage on the High Council, and they speak with one voice in this. I know what I’m talking about.”
Kellen almost wished he hadn’t told them that, because of the way they looked at him then, but he knew he had to convince them at any cost. Idalia was right. If the stone Hounds came here and attacked, there would be nothing left of the village.
But he also knew that the Hounds would be looking for him; and for Idalia most of all, once Lycaelon realized she was still alive. Idalia was right. If the two of them could cross the border into Elven lands before the Scouring Hunt was set loose, perhaps the Hounds wouldn’t waste too much of their energy on lesser targets.
“Well, if the colt says that, it’s good enough for me,” a Centaur named Yadrian said firmly. “I’m taking my family and heading east—now—before some greedy Mage decides to hitch me to a plow!”
It turned out that Yadrian spoke for most of the Centaurkin in Merryvale. By the time Kellen left the village, they had already begun dismantling their houses and shops, preparing to head east to places of greater safety. By the time the first Lawspeakers from the City arrived, the only sign that Centaurs had ever been here would be the carvings on the village walls—and the Lawspeakers and Militia would probably insist those be taken down and burned, Kellen thought gloomily. Not that it would matter much. He thought that even the humans who planned to stay and protest Armethalieh’s land-grab would be following the Centaurs and the rest of the Otherfolk within a season or two.
WHILE Kellen was in Merryvale, some of the other free souls who had heard the news came to visit Idalia. Most were afraid, all were angry—some were even angry for Idalia’s sake as well as their own.
“How can they do this to you, girl? I’ve half a mind to ride down into that City of theirs and fetch that high-and-mighty Arch-Mage a clout on the ear he wouldn’t soon forget!” Kearn said.
Kearn was a Mountain Trader, making a last pass into the lowlands before the snows made the passes of the High Reaches uncertain. He often stopped to look in on Idalia, and this year she was even gladder to see him than usual, for Kearn traveled with a hardy string of pack mules, and she and Kellen were going to need mobility and speed for themselves and their possessions to make their way west and over the border ahead of the Scouring Hunt.
At least the Centaurs have their own means of transportation, she thought regretfully.
“Ah, Kearn, if I thought it would do any good, I’d send you to him with my blessing. But the High Council Mages are”—she paused, trying to think of a way to make him understand—“they’re the worst possible combination of vices. They’re greedy, stupid and scared, and utterly convinced that they are the only possible people in the world who can, should, and deserve to sit in authority over others, and that’s all there is to it.” Idalia shrugged.
“Hard weather for the littlefolk, though,” Kearn said sympathetically. “They depend on you, you know. From what I hear, the City won’t have any care for them.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Idalia said crossly. “If I stay, things will only be worse for them—and I won’t be let to help them anyway with my ‘evil magic.’ ” She didn’t bother to remind him that she would be under a sentence of death for that same magic. “Besides, most of them are leaving now.”
“Aye, I thought the Wildwood seemed a bit thin of company as the girls and I rode through,” Kearn said, gesturing through the open door of the cabin to where a string of hobbled mules stood placidly behind a large white-stockinged bay. “So the Shining Folk are leaving as well?” he asked, using one of the many names the Mountain Traders had for the shyer Otherfolk.
“Why should they stay where they are not welcomed?” Idalia asked sharply. Shalkan had spread his warnings far and wide, and the dryads, sylphs, undines, gnomes, sprites, brownies, pixies, and fauns had already begun to leave the Wildwood and the surrounding hills. Even the dryads were leaving, difficult though that was for them; they were taking seedlings of their trees, and going. The land would be less fertile and forgiving in their absence—and wouldn’t that be an unwelcome surprise for the Mages, who must have gotten reports about how lush and productive the western farmland was?
“But I’m glad you’re here, Kearn. You’re a trader. I want to trade.”
Kearn regarded her with wary interest, for he’d traded with Idalia before, and knew she was a sharp bargainer. “I’m not sure I have anything you want with me this trip, Idalia,” he began slowly. “Unless you’re planning to come home with me, you and the boy. Not that it isn’t a great honor, of course …”
“You have the mules,” Idalia interrupted, cutting off what promised to be a lengthy speech.
“Sell one of my girls?” Kearn looked shocked. “They’re like family! Besides, I need them to carry my own things home.”
“But you won’t be waiting to take on a full load this trip,” Idalia pointed out mercilessly. “You’ll be heading home today or tomorrow, with only what you have now, because the news I’ve given you can’t wait a few extra sennights to be delivered. If Armethalieh is claiming the Western Hills, how long until it claims the Western Mountains, and everything right up to the Elven borders? For that matter, you’ll have a lot of folk heading out of the Hills up into your mountains now—right into the teeth of winter, some of them—humans and Centaurs, fauns, and others of the Shining Folk besides. Your folk will need to make ready to receive them.”
Kearn grumbled and stared at the ceiling, unable to argue against the truth she set forth so plainly. “Even supposing what you say is true, I’ll travel faster if my girls are lightly laden.”
“Which is why I wouldn’t bring it up unless I had something that would tempt even a hard-hearted old trader like you, Kearn,” Idalia said with a ruthless smile.
She walked into the bedroom and came back with a small folded packet of grey material in her hands. “This.”
“Is it a shirt, then?” Kearn asked, getting to his feet. He started to shake his head. “Now, Idalia, you know …”
“Not a shirt. Better.” Idalia shook out the tarnkappa and swirled it around herself.
And vanished.
“Do we have a bargain?” she said a moment later, folding the cloak over her hand. “With this you can take game even in deepest winter—you can’t be seen, or heard, or smelled. The cloak for my pick of your mules, plus its tack.”
Kearn stared, stupefied by what he’d just seen. “Idalia, this … you could buy a hundred mules for magic such as this.”
“But I only need one. And you have one to sell. And I don’t need this. And you want it. I need a mule, if Kellen and I are going to get out of here with more than we can carry on our backs. And you want it, don’t pretend you don’t.” At any other time, she’d have said that teasingly. Not today. “I can’t trade with the village; the village needs all its mules for those that are going to try to escape instead of trusting to the tender mercies of the High Council. And besides that, if the tarnkappa stays anywhere in the Western Hills the City Mages will only sniff it out and destroy it because it was made with Wildmagery, so there’s no point in trading it to someone who’s going to try to stay. So … do we have a bargain?”
“And it will never fail?” Kearn asked, holding himself back from reaching for it with a great effort.
“If it is not torn or burned. If it is used wisely—not to kill only for the sake of killing, or to kill what you don’t intend to eat or use, or to injure instead of kill. If you use it to do murder, Kearn, then I cannot say what will happen to the spell.” She gave him a penetrating look. “Remember; it was made with Wild Magic, and if you use it to do something the Wild Magic disapproves of—there’s going to be a price. I made it to hunt with.”
“I will do none of those things,” Kearn promised fervently, abandoning any further attempt to bargain. “I swear by the Wild Magic and the Hunt Law that I will never use this shamefully. Do we have a fair bargain, then?”
“A fair bargain,” Idalia agreed, placing the cloak in his hands. “Now let’s go look at the mules.”
WHEN Kellen returned from Merryvale, the first thing he saw was a friendly dun-colored mule tied out at the edge of the clearing, cropping away meditatively at the bushes.
“Do we have company?” he asked, sticking his head in the door of the cabin. Idalia was sorting through their belongings, picking the things they would take with them in their flight. The rest would be traded away, including the cabin itself.
Though Kellen could ride Shalkan Idalia would need a horse to ride, and good horses were expensive. Even more expensive now, with so many people fleeing; he feared it would take everything they owned, or near it, to acquire one. But then again, what were they to do with all the things they could not take with them?
Idalia shook out a blanket, and folded it into a tight packet. “No, she’s ours. I believe her name is Prettyfoot. A trader friend of mine came by while you were gone, and I was able to talk him out of one of his pack animals, for a price. He’s on his way back to the High Reaches now with the news from the City.” She added the blanket to a growing pile. “How did things go in the village?”
Kellen grimaced. He didn’t want to tell her what was only more bad news, but perhaps if she went to the village, they might believe her.
Or perhaps not. How much more could be said to convince them?
“I’m not sure if the humans really believed me about how bad it’s going to get, but the Centaurs did,” he said, finally. “They’re already packing up to leave. I think the Mayor’s planning to write a letter of protest to the High Council. Fat lot of good that’s going to do.” Kellen threw himself into a chair dejectedly.
Idalia sat down on a stool that Kellen had just finished before—
Before we found out we weren’t going to have a home to put it in anymore.
It wasn’t fair. I was just getting used to this place. I might even have gotten to like it in winter. It was a good stool, too …
Idalia shook her head. “When are the Centaurs leaving?” she asked.
“As soon as they can pack—they’re even tearing down their houses to make carts, some of them,” Kellen told her. He’d been amazed to see them hard at work, dismantling buildings, swiftly turning what had been walls and roofs into covered carts, which the C
entaurs would pull themselves.
“So.” Idalia smiled, and he thought she wore an air of grim satisfaction. “When the City tax collectors arrive, they’ll find a village full of half-dismantled houses. I wish them joy of that.”
“Huh.” Oddly enough, that gave Kellen a little satisfaction himself. “And just wait until they find out that half the farming around here was done by the Centaurs. So much for those taxes.” He wondered just how much farming was going to get done by human farmers, used to having burly Centaurs helping with the plowing. “I hope Master Badelz says something about that …”
“Well, it won’t change the plans for annexation, but maybe it will convince the Council that they’d better keep their greedy fingers off the villages until they can sort out just how much revenue they’ve managed to drive away,” Idalia said, though without much hope. “Perhaps that will confuse things long enough for the rest of the humanfolk to make some real plans about what to do now that the City’s decided to become so greedy.”
“A lot of them think they can make the City see reason,” Kellen answered unhappily. “They think if they just send enough petitions, the Council will realize that they’ve trampled all over the laws of the villages, apologize, and go away.”
“And do they also expect that the winter snows will vanish if they create a law to banish them as well?” Idalia asked acidly, then sighed. “Never mind. Who knows? A miracle might happen. And in any event, if the two of us are gone when the Militia arrives and the Scouring Hunt is set loose, maybe the City won’t be in such a hurry to enforce its decrees.”
TO Idalia’s surprise—though not to Kellen’s, who had been in on some of the early plans—visitors began arriving at dawn of the day before the two of them were to leave: not only villagers from Merryvale, but others from villages and steadings even farther away. All arrived bearing the makings of a celebration: kegs of beer and wine and mead and cider, wheels of cheese, smoked hams, loaves of honey-glazed bread.
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