It sounded to Kellen as if she were talking about a pact of the Wild Magic—paying a price in exchange for a boon. Did that mean Elves had been human once? Did it mean humans had made a bargain like that with the Gods—or that they’d had a chance to make a bargain and hadn’t, and so kept their ability to do magic?
But Ashaniel was still speaking.
“I do mean save it, for I fear, Kellen, that the land is dying, and if it dies, there will be no reviving it. We have only just been able to keep the forest and fields near Sentarshadeen and our own herds and flocks alive by carrying water from the five springs to the fields, and to the roots of each tree in the Flower Forest, but if a wildfire should start in the arid lands beyond our home forest, there will be no stopping it before all—the woods, the home forest, our city—is destroyed.”
She was right, Kellen knew, nodding in agreement. Back in the Wildwood, he’d seen the damage a flash-fire could cause even in a normal well-watered forest. And no matter how much water the Elves had carried to their home woods, if Sentarshadeen was surrounded by a million acres of burning forest, it just wouldn’t make any difference. And winter was coming, and winter meant storms. He thought of the dryad’s lightning-struck tree back in the Wildwood, and what would have happened if the Wildwood had been as tinder-dry as the country he and Idalia had ridden through for the last sennight. And even without a lightning storm, high wind could bring disaster, if it carried a spark from a cook-fire or lantern into dry grass.
“I can only hope—when Idalia hears of how it stands with Sentarshadeen—that she can—that she will—help us,” Ashaniel finished brokenly.
“I can’t promise that she can help,” Kellen said carefully. “I can promise that I’ll talk to her and tell her what’s going on. And that we’ll try.”
He thought back on Idalia’s careful nurturing of the Wildwood, of all the things they’d done there, and not always because it was a part of a price. He couldn’t imagine Idalia not wanting to help, even if she weren’t living here. And she was living here—they both were.
And that might make things even worse.
If some of the drought-dry woods were on the other side of the border—the side of the border claimed by Armethalieh …
Was the High Council foolish enough—mad enough—to try to burn them out if they knew they were here? Did they know about the drought?
“We’ll do everything we can,” Kellen said simply. “So tell me as much as you can about the situation, would you? Just when did you know there was something wrong?”
The Queen leaned forward earnestly, and began.
A servant escorted Kellen to the door of the House of Leaf and Star, and bowed politely as he left. On consideration, Kellen wasn’t entirely certain it had been a servant—Queens ought to have servants, but Ashaniel wasn’t anything like Kellen had expected a Queen to be, except that he was already sure he was half in love with her. Certainly Sentarshadeen was nothing like Armethalieh at all.
Though the sun was long set by now, the way before him was not dark. Lanterns and torches were placed at frequent intervals along the path to light his way—though Kellen was relieved to see, after his conversation with the Queen, that all of them were completely enclosed, to keep any stray spark from flying out. Then again—these were Elves, who seemed constitutionally incapable of doing anything without thinking about it for a very long time. Maybe they’d always done things this way.
More lanterns stretched off into the distance, dwindling into sparks that seemed to hang suspended in space like a cloud of multicolored fireflies. For one dizzying moment the meadow before him seemed to change places with the heavens above, and Kellen could imagine himself walking through a field of softly glowing stars, shining not with the cold blue-white radiance of the night sky, but in all the pale beautiful colors of spring. Many of the lanterns that he saw had walls of colored glass—blue and pink and green and yellow, and even, here and there, a surprising pale violet. Some were even inset with mirrors, so they sparkled and flashed like fireworks as he passed them, while others were filled with reservoirs of perfumed oil, making the night smell as sweet as a garden at noon. No two of the Elven lanterns were alike, Kellen discovered. Some were topped with whirligigs that flashed and spun from the heat within; others had softly chiming bells attached. Every lantern he saw was different, each one a work of high art, worthy to grace a museum or a palace.
He retraced his steps toward the former guesthouse, taking his time. If Sentarshadeen had been beautiful by day, it was completely enchanting by night. It was difficult to believe that none of this was accomplished by magic, but he saw—and sensed—no hint of magic at all.
It was very strange. Armethalieh was a city filled with magic—yet it was entirely ordinary, even prosaic—and the High Council toiled day and night to keep it that way. Sentarshadeen had very little magic about it, yet it was the most magical city Kellen had ever seen, a place of enchantment and wonder.
Several times as he made his way home Kellen saw Elves tending the lanterns nearest their doors. Apparently it was each householder’s responsibility to take care of the lanterns nearest their own homes, and he hoped someone was doing it at his and Idalia’s house.
When he reached home at last, he was pleased to see that they had: two large golden lanterns in the shape of summer squash hung outside their door, glowing a deep rich gold. Light spilled through the windows of the common room, and through the clear glass panels inset into the door.
Kellen opened the door and stepped inside.
Idalia was lounging on one of the long padded benches along the wall, surrounded by pillows, reading a book. All of their gear had been neatly tidied away, and the house now looked as though it had been theirs for years. A grey cat had appeared from somewhere and was tucked under one of her arms, purring contentedly. Idalia had pulled the stool over to serve as a low table, and a steaming cup of tea was resting on it, along with half an apple.
She looked up when he entered, raising an eyebrow noncommittally, and only then did Kellen remember that when he’d gone out he’d been wearing a different set of clothes entirely.
My clothes! I forgot all about them … .
He wondered what the Elves had done with them. Thrown them out, probably.
“I’m sorry I’m late getting back,” he said. “But I was invited to dinner … at the House of Leaf and Star.” He couldn’t resist a certain amount of smugness at the news.
“Ah.” Idalia gently set the cat aside and sat up—it yawned and stretched, then curled up in the warm spot she’d vacated. “And how did you and Sandalon get along with each other?”
Kellen gaped. He watched as Idalia kept herself from snickering with a visible effort, then pulled her face straight.
“You’ll soon find, Kellen, that it’s impossible to keep a secret in Sentarshadeen—or anywhere else in the Elven lands, for that matter. The Elves are masters of all the arts—and gossip is also an art form. Not only did three people stop by this afternoon to pass the time and tell me Sandalon had made a new friend, but when Astallance brought your other clothes back from the Palace, she told me you’d been invited to dinner.” She smiled then. “I would have expected that, anyway; the Queen is famous for her hospitality and if you hadn’t been invited today, you certainly would have been tomorrow. The only reason I wasn’t, was because I haven’t left our house.” Now she raised an eyebrow. “I told you that in their way, the Elves are sticklers for etiquette. Until I go into public, I don’t officially live here. Or rather, there is a strange female human who is a guest here, who may or may not be Idalia the Wildmage.”
“Then you know about the drought already?” Kellen asked, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Idalia leaned forward, her smile fading.
“Perhaps you’d better come and sit down and tell me all about your day,” she said. “Don’t leave anything out just because you think I might have heard it elsewhere.”
Kellen sat down
beside her and told her about meeting Sandalon and then Ashaniel. He told her what Ashaniel had told him—that there had been drought since spring, that it had begun when the spring rains failed to arrive, and nothing the Elves could do could end it. He told her how tinder-dry the forest was, and traced for her (as well as he could remember) the territory affected, in all directions, as far as the Elves themselves knew it.
Idalia listened intently, and with growing worry of her own. It was clear that although she had heard some of this from other sources, she had not heard the whole, and that what she had heard had only served to increase her concern.
“And she asked if you’d help. I said you would—I said I’d ask at least, and that I’d try—was that all right?” Kellen finished anxiously.
“Of course it was,” Idalia said absently, patting his knee. “I’ll do what I can, and by that, I mean I will try everything to help them. We both will. If Sentarshadeen should fall …” She left the sentence unfinished, gazing off into space, her mind obviously elsewhere. “Go to bed, Kellen. You’ve had a long day, and tomorrow will be just as long.”
It wasn’t the dismissal of an adult to a child; it was said in a tone of comradely kindness, a gentle reminder that the excitement of being in this amazing place would carry him only so long until it ran out and left him staring exhaustedly into space.
It was hard to remember with all that had happened since then, but this morning Kellen had been on the road, and had gotten up before dawn to feed and water the animals before the day’s ride. Since then he’d spent much of the day walking all over Sentarshadeen with Sandalon, so even though it was only just a little while after sunset, he realized that Idalia was right. He was tired, and going to bed actually seemed like a good idea.
A very good idea, in fact. Idalia had been wiser than he, to spend the afternoon and evening here, quietly, resting.
“You’re right, as usual,” he said, and found himself yawning. “Very right,” he added, and took her hand for a moment, giving it a quick squeeze before he got up. She looked surprised, then touched, and squeezed her hand back.
The lamps in his room had also been lit, and his Mountain Trader clothes were folded neatly on the bed, cleaned and brushed, just as Idalia had said. Even his boots had been polished.
A quick inspection of the drawers and cabinets as he put away the clothes revealed that Idalia had stowed away the rest of his gear, and someone had made him a gift of a few more sets of Elven guest-clothes, including a dark blue night-robe of some weaving that was as soft as fur. Kellen removed his Palace-clothes and slipped it on, marveling once more at the simple perfection the Elves brought to everything they did.
There was a bowl of fruit and a slender carafe of juice on the table beside his bed, and on the small desk beside the door, his copies of the three Books of the Wild Magic were stacked neatly. The bed was turned back, and soft linen sheets gleamed invitingly. He hadn’t slept in a bed this fine since he’d left the City.
But even tired as he was, Kellen realized that he wasn’t quite ready to sleep. He picked up The Book of Moon and the desk-lantern and went over to the window seat, opening the windows to the cool of the night. He came back and quenched the other lanterns, so that the room was in darkness, the only light coming from the lamp beside the book and the gentle radiance of the city’s many-colored lanterns spilling in through the window. He set the lamp carefully on the sill and settled down to read.
Simple spells of seeing and finding and knowing: most of the spells of the Wild Magic were contained in The Book of Moons, the first of the three Books—it was the art and craft of using and adapting them, the philosophy behind them, that were held in The Book of Sun and The Book of Stars. You could start to practice the Wild Magic within minutes of picking up the Books, but it would take you a lifetime to understand it. He’d barely begun.
His thoughts drifted away from the Book in his hands as he gazed out through his window into the lighted city below. Standing in the Low Market in Armethalieh, holding this Book in his hands for the first time, could he have ever imagined he would be here? Could he even have imagined this place existed?
Standing outside the Delfier Gate, hearing it barred behind him forever, would he have thought it was worth Banishment to come here and see what he had seen?
Yes. But not worth all the lives of those people the High Council is going to make miserable by annexing their lands just to try to get at me.
That’s the problem, really—I don’t mind paying the price, but is it fair that another price should be extracted from people who don’t even know me?
No. Not if the Wild Magic was involved. The Wild Magic could ask you to pay any price it chose, up to and including your own life, but it would never, never, ask you to pay another’s life. You could not pay what you did not own, not in the Wild Magic.
But he hadn’t asked to come here. He hadn’t made any bargains with Wild Magic. So was their involvement due to Wild Magic, or was it only coincidence?
Or did Father plan to annex the Wildwood all along?
It was possible. It was more than possible. In retrospect, Kellen now recognized the seeds of greed and avarice in his father, a desperate need to be numbered among the great Arch-Mages. Perhaps, just as Idalia had said, Kellen’s defection was only the excuse, not the cause.
He hoped so. All the grief and pain for others that had been and was being unleashed hung heavily on his heart.
And this strange drought, this dangerous weather—he wondered if the reason Idalia had brought them here was part of another price, for she surely hadn’t been willing to come. He knew the Wild Magic was powerful, but he’d still barely begun to learn about it. Could it truly be powerful enough to bring an end to this terrible drought in time?
And if it was, what would be the price of that? And who would pay it?
Chapter Eighteen
The City Never Sleeps
LYCAELON TAVADON PACED irritably behind his throne in the Council Chamber, waiting for the twelve to arrive. This meeting was not of his calling, and he did not expect it to go well.
The news his agents had brought him over the last sennights had not been good. It had, in fact, been a catalogue of disasters, each more baffling than the last.
The Scouring Hunt had been called up and sent forth—at great cost to the Mages and their stores of hoarded energy. A handpicked troop of Militia and Lawspeakers had ridden out ahead—though the Hunt would overtake them and finish its cleansing work days before they arrived—to bring news of Armethalieh’s will to its newly annexed dominions, stewards to govern them and assessors and tax gatherers to make sure that the crofts and villages were smoothly integrated into the great family of Armethaliehan lands. When they arrived in lands newly humbled by such an awe-inspiring display of Mageborn power, its inhabitants should be deeply grateful to receive the City’s protection.
Even though the City itself had visited the terror of the Scouring Hunt upon them …
And The Outlaw would be taken, run to ground, with the just vengeance of the City exacted upon him at last.
But that wasn’t what had happened.
The first news to reach Lycaelon as the remains of the Scouring Hunt came limping home was the worst: The Outlaw had escaped once again. Somehow the miserable whelp had known the Hunt was coming and had fled before it, vanishing beyond the Hunt’s power to follow, for by the laws of the magick that had given the Hounds life and power, they could not follow their prey outside Armethalieh’s newly expanded borders.
And just as bad, so Lycaelon discovered from the minds of the stone Hounds—for with the proper spells, a Mage of sufficient power could see and hear all that a Hound had seen and heard while Hunting—the boy had help in his wickedness, an ally whose name Lycaelon had forgotten long ago, to his cost.
Idalia. His daughter. His treacherous Banished Wildmage daughter.
The Outlaw Hunt sent after her years before had returned, baffled, unable to find her. How that could b
e, he had not then, and did not now, have any idea. But when there was no word of her for two entire years, he had assumed that she must have died in that grace period between dusk and dawn. Even near the Delfier Gate, after all, the wilderness was dangerous, and there were rogues aplenty and wild animals who could have removed her from the world before the Hunt had been released. She might even have chosen to die by her own hand, rather than face the life of an Outlaw or the terror of the Hunt.
But clearly—so he saw now—she had not run afoul of misfortune. Somehow she had escaped, and not content with escaping justice, had obviously found some way to infect Kellen with her twisted madness from afar, and then claimed him for her own in the moment that the City’s protection had been lifted from him.
Someday, girl, I will find you both. And when I do, I swear by the Eternal Light, there will come such a reckoning as will make even your Tainted soul tremble!
The door to the Council chamber opened, and the rest of the Council began to arrive, austere and magisterial in their grey Council robes: Breulin, Meron, Volpiril, Perizel, Lorins, Arance, Ganaret, Nagid, Vilmos, Dagan, Isas, Harith.
A herald announced each one as he entered the room, and an Undermage servant waited beside each one’s chair to serve him.
Volpiril, Light blast him back into the Darkness, looked positively gloating at the current turn of events, though he did his best to look austere and dispassionate. Isas and Harith were, as always, Lycaelon’s creatures, and would back him no matter what he did, but Breulin and Perizel both had a dangerous streak of independence, and the news from the west had been shockingly bad.
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