An unbidden thought intruded. I only hope that I can …
She shook it off, moved quietly across the main room, to look in on Kellen. He was sound asleep, tangled up in the blankets as though he’d lost a fight with them. She felt a fond smile cross her lips. Kellen slept like a hibernating bear; there was very little chance she’d wake him, no matter how much noise she made.
She quickly brewed her morning tea. She had no appetite herself, but she set out a plate of breakfast pastries for Kellen to find when he awoke. There’d been many visitors last night while Kellen had been out exploring, and at the moment, the larder was full enough to withstand even the onslaughts of a growing teenager’s appetite.
Kellen … Idalia remembered her first experience in Elven lands and sighed. Last night, when Kellen had come back from the Palace, his eyes had been so full of stars it was the Gods’ own mercy he’d made it home at all, and walked through the door instead of into it! The Elves were so beautiful, so kind, their protracted lives so seemingly perfect … it was easy to fall into the trap of thinking they were always right as well.
And they certainly think so, after all. It’s easier to shift an overburdened mule than to get one of the Elvenborn to change his mind! “Stubborn as an Elf” … now there was a new maxim for the City fathers to din into younglings’ heads! And it took you forever to notice, because, when one of the Elvenkind disagreed with you, all they ever did was smile and change the subject, and it could take a person forever to figure out that there’d been an argument … and you’d lost.
She would never lose her admiration for them, her respect for their wisdom and knowledge, and her affection for them—but Jermayan had served her one good turn. She was no longer blind to their faults, either as individuals or as a race.
But all this cloud-gathering wasn’t getting her anywhere, and the sun was almost up. Idalia finished her tea, washed out the cup, and left the tea-things out where Kellen would find them. Then she picked up her walking-staff, filled her pockets with charged keystones, and left their lodging.
She took a quicker route than Kellen had followed the night before, up past the House of Leaf and Star and into the orchard beyond. Even at this early hour, Elves were already hard at work carrying water to the fragile trees. She greeted several of them by name, but did not stop to do more than exchange the briefest of greetings. The sooner she had her answers, the sooner her real work could begin. And with their usual sensitivity to her, they understood that she had an urgent task, and did not delay her beyond the simplest of courtesies.
A few more minutes’ walk brought her to her goal: one of the ever-flowing springs that supplied the water for all of Sentarshadeen, located in the meadow beyond the Queen’s Orchard. Without rain, these were the only sources of water for the city. There were five of them, as she remembered: Alcemil, Caldulin, Elassar, Helanarya, Songmairie. This should be Songmairie. Helanarya and Elassar were under Sentarshadeen itself, their waters sent by wind-driven pumps to course through the miles of pipes whose results had so delighted Kellen last night.
A wide path of smooth stone led up to Songmairie—laid down, Idalia guessed, when it had become necessary to bring water carts to the spring several times a day—and the verge of the spring itself was edged with a decorative pattern of stones and tiles. Grass—lush here, so close to the water source—grew up between them.
She looked out over the meadow, but there were no unicorns to be seen at this hour, though she knew that quite a large herd lived in Sentarshadeen, since Elves and unicorns often lived together. Centuries ago, during the Endarkened War, Elven Knights had ridden unicorns into battle against the Endarkened hordes and their allies. All memory of that war had carefully been edited out of texts in the City, and it was so long ago that Idalia doubted that any of the Elvenkind now alive remembered it personally. But the memories of the Elves were very long, and their recorded memories of Demonkind longer still, and it was never safe to forget the Shadow.
She knelt and drank from the spring. The water was icy and pure. But not enough—even if Sentarshadeen held ten times its population, and all of them labored day and night—to water enough acreage to save them from disaster. All it would take would be one good grass-fire, one lightning strike …
One out-of-control salamander, a high wind, or just another year of no rain. And no reason for it. It was raining in Merryvale, and that’s east of here, toward the sea. Why shouldn’t it rain here?
Still kneeling, she emptied her pockets of keystones. She dipped each in the spring—water called to water—and then arranged them around her in a rough circle.
She cupped her hands again, filling them with the spring, and scattered the water around her, moistening the keystones a second time. Earth-magic and the spells of Finding and Calling required the caster’s blood and the fruits of the earth as tokens of intent, but weather magic was the magic of air and water, and did not use those symbols as a bridge between the power of the Wildmage and that of the Gods.
She touched her wet hands lightly to her lips, blowing over them gently, and let the power well up in her, concentrating on her need and her desire.
Rain.
Kneeling in the earth, feeling its thirst, Idalia smelled water, tasted water, willed water to be. It was time for rain—the harvest was in, the land was ready to rest, to sleep. Time for rain, to bring the autumn leaves down from the trees and ready the earth for winter and snow. She could feel it—in the air, just over the peaks, in the distance—and called it to her with the intensity of a woman calling for her lover. Come to me, Beloved, and give me rest.
Nothing.
After a long fruitless struggle, Idalia opened her eyes with a sigh. Not so much as a shift in the wind. The keystones were drained, and the sky was still an empty arid blue.
More than any other, weather magic required patience and care. A storm couldn’t be whistled up for the asking—not out of a cloudless sky, at least, and certainly not without paying a greater price than Idalia cared to. To change the weather was more a matter of a series of gentle nudges over time, more like herding sheep than lighting a fire.
But if her spell was going to have any effect at all, she should have felt something. And she’d felt nothing at all. It wouldn’t matter how much power she used, or how many folk she shared the price among, she knew: the result would be the same.
The wind would not shift. The rains would not come.
Idalia’s shoulders slumped.
This is no natural drought.
She’d suspected as much, after hearing Kellen’s story the night before—Ashaniel would not have been so disturbed by a natural change in the weather. The Elves had seen so many droughts in the course of a lifetime that a natural drought would simply be met with a sigh, a hope that the Gods of Leaf and Star would set things in balance soon, and some careful conservation until the drought was over. They were sensitive to the health of their land as humans (other than Wildmages) were not; they would have known if this drought was like the others that had come and gone in the past.
They had—as she had—felt the subtle wrongness. They had known that no natural dry spell would give rise to that feeling of imbalance.
And that meant that someone was causing this.
High Mages? It wasn’t impossible. Would Lycaelon attack the Elves indirectly this way, perhaps to drive them farther away from the City and the lands it claimed? It would be a clever way to do it, since he could, if challenged, easily deny any such thing, even to the Elves. High Magick, stolen as it was from all of the citizens of Armethalieh, and learned according to strict formulas, did not have a signature in the way that Wild Magic did, identifying who the Mage was that set it in motion.
But much as she’d like to place all the evils of the world at Lycaelon’s doorstep, until the City had claimed and pacified both the Western Hills and the High Reaches, they had little motive for starting a war with the Elven lands—and war it would be, the moment the Elves discovered who was behind
the drought. And Lycaelon could not have set a spell of this magnitude alone. He would have needed the backing of the rest of the Council.
No. Idalia abandoned the idea reluctantly. Though the City might yet be discovered to be behind this, the Elves had other enemies. Enemies older than the City, and more powerful …
Wearily, Idalia gathered up her empty keystones and got to her feet. Figuring out who was responsible for this would take a lot more work than she’d already put in. She’d have to rest first, and then make her plans—and weave her spells—very, very carefully.
If her suspicions were true, she could not afford even the slightest of mistakes in her hunting.
KELLEN slept deeply and well on his first night in Sentarshadeen, his dreams untroubled. When he awoke at last, it was to the gentle tickle of whiskers on his face, as the grey cat that seemed to have adopted them investigated him curiously.
A glance out the window told him he had slept far later than he could remember sleeping in—well, it would have to go back to before he began formal schooling. In the Wildwood, the day and its tasks started with the dawn, and back in the City, Kellen had always been in a hurry to be out of the house by Second Morning Bells at the latest in order to avoid Lycaelon.
But here there was nothing pressing that had to be done, and no one to avoid.
He lay there for a few minutes, examining the feeling and not certain how to label it, while he gave the grey cat the thorough head scratch she demanded. He was sure there were things to be doing here in Sentarshadeen, but at the moment he didn’t have to do any of them. It felt peculiar.
The cat seemed to find some fault with his attentions, for she suddenly gave a violent sneeze directly into his face and bounded off through the window Kellen had left open the night before. “Now, there’s gratitude!” Kellen said, half annoyed, half amused. “You ought to belong to Lycaelon.”
Yawning, Kellen got up and went in search of Idalia and breakfast.
He found breakfast—a plate of cold pastries, and tea-things laid out for him on the table beside the hearth-stove—but no Idalia. Her room was empty, the bed neatly made. Obviously she had gone out several hours before, leaving him to sleep.
He filled the kettle and put it on to heat, and while he was waiting for it to boil, he washed and dressed, being careful to use as little water as possible and marveling once again at the comfort and efficiency of the Elven plumbing. No shivering outdoors as he had in the Wildwood or waiting around for servants to bring water as he had back in the City. Everything was just there, exactly when and where you wanted it.
Clean and dressed—after a little hesitation, he’d chosen one of the new Elven outfits that had been left for him—he ate, savoring the unfamiliar Elven spices, while deciding what to do with his day. The view from the balcony was just as amazing this morning as it had been last night; now he noticed something else, the sound of Sentarshadeen.
In Armethalieh, he’d grown up listening to the harmonizing of the bells that marked the rhythms of the City’s days and seasons; in the Wildwood, he’d become accustomed to the way that random birdcalls, water sounds, and the song of the winds in the leaves created a background “song,” of sorts.
Here in Sentarshadeen, the magic of the bells of Armethalieh had somehow been grafted onto the sounds of the Wildwood. The song of the forest, added to the wind chimes, the wind bells, and wind harps in the gardens, created a music unlike anything he had ever heard. Beautiful, peaceful—he wondered what it would be like if there wasn’t a drought. Surely there would be the voices of a thousand fountains, waterfalls, and the great voice of the river as well, adding yet another note to the consort.
Then, as he finished his breakfast, a breeze brought him the scent of Sentarshadeen—or at least, the scent in drought time—and it was as subtle as the song. As in the Wildwood, Kellen could smell the aroma of warm grass and green leaves, but with a hint of sweet herbs and foreign spices added, a suggestion of something in flower. The scent was refreshing, but again, he wondered what it would be like if there wasn’t a drought, and lusher flowers were in bloom, roses and phlox, and the water lilies of the ponds.
The scent, the sound, the sight, called to him, and Kellen felt a restlessness come over him. He didn’t want to just sit around waiting for Idalia to come back, not with a whole exotic Elven city to explore. He supposed Sandalon must have had lessons this morning or else he would already be here; well, Sandalon would certainly be able to find Kellen anywhere he went, if what Idalia had told him about the Elves’ penchant for gossip was true. And meanwhile, he’d take this chance to get a better look around. If everybody knew he’d had dinner at the Palace last night, they might be a little more forthcoming today.
KELLEN wandered along the canyon floor, peering in at the half-hidden houses as he passed and hoping he wasn’t being too rude as he did so. From all that he’d seen yesterday, Kellen had gotten used to the idea that all the Elves were fabulously wealthy by human standards, but what he saw today confused him. Some of the houses he passed, while obviously lived-in, were nearly empty, and so tiny they consisted of only one room.
Were these Elves poor? Or had they just chosen to live without possessions? Nothing he saw anywhere, even in the smallest houses, looked shabby or of poor quality, and everything he saw had the serene beauty of Nature—nothing cluttered, nothing out of place, everything where it was meant to be. Harmonious. Kellen wasn’t quite sure where the word came from, but it certainly fit. The Elven city was the visual counterpart to a piece of music: everything exactly where it ought to be, every portion necessary, nothing wasted, nothing too much.
Some of the houses had tiny gardens planted around them, and as Kellen passed one house, he came upon an Elven man watering his garden with a bucket and dipper. Kellen slowed down, then stopped to watch.
The man was very old, Kellen realized. His long braided hair had lightened with age until it was the blue of storm clouds, and his body had the wiry slenderness of age. He was wearing a simple loose tunic and trousers, and his feet were bare. He looked up as Kellen approached, and regarded him with bright-eyed interest.
“I see you, Kellen Tavadon, friend of Sandalon.”
“I see you, gracious sir,” Kellen responded, trying to copy the little half-bow he’d seen last night at the House of Leaf and Star. He started to ask a question, and stopped himself just in time. Asking questions was the height of rudeness here, he was starting to realize. But maybe he could get his answers without asking questions.
“I’m walking through the city because it’s the most beautiful city I’ve ever seen. I have never seen an Elven city, for I have spent most of my life in the city of Armethalieh. I confess that I’m curious about both your city and your people,” Kellen said, after a long moment’s thought. Approach the subject obliquely, that’s the key, he thought to himself encouragingly. He was rewarded by a faint smile from the elderly Elf.
“Huh,” the old man said, as if speaking to his plants. “And they say humans have no manners. Come and sit a moment in my garden, Kellen Tavadon, and listen to an old man talk to his plants, if it would please you.”
“It would please me and honor me very much, goodsir,” Kellen replied, cheered that his first attempt at Elven manners had succeeded so well.
The old man came over to the edge of the path, ushering Kellen into his garden. There was a low wooden bench placed along the wall of the house where it would catch the morning sun, a bench made of wood carved in the sinuous lines of a curving vine and as soft and silken beneath his hand as an Elven cloak. Kellen seated himself carefully as the old man returned to his watering.
“Here is eyebright, which will soothe the weariness brought on by late nights over books, and goldcap, which makes a soothing tea, and purple hand—you will remark the shape—which is an excellent poultice for bruises. And you are a Wildmage.”
The last was stated as matter-of-factly as the names of the herbs, so it took Kellen a few moments to figure out that i
t might be a question.
“I … yes. No. I don’t know, not really,” he managed, feeling, somehow, that nothing less than the absolute truth was needed here. “I have the three Books, and I read and study them, and I—I do my best. I haven’t been studying as long as my sister, though.”
“Yet quite long enough to be filled with questions about where the Wild Magic comes from, for that is the nature of humans, to always be filled with questions.” The elderly Elf appeared to be addressing his herbs, not Kellen. “It is in the nature of the world that if something is absent from one place, it merely goes to another, and as there are no questions among the Elves, it follows that humans must ask twice as many questions to make up for it,” the old one said, smiling down at a set of rosemary bushes, then looking up at Kellen, still smiling. “Perhaps.”
“I think you might be right,” Kellen answered, smiling back.
“Then it may be that you would be good enough to satisfy an old man’s curiosity, Kellen Tavadon, and tell him where the world comes from,” the old one said, moving slowly along the rows of plants with his dipper, pouring out a small measure of water onto the roots of each.
“The world doesn’t come from anywhere,” Kellen said, confused. “The world just is.”
The ancient Elf nodded, satisfied. “And so it is with the Wild Magic, young Kellen. The Wild Magic just is. Root and leaf, world and magic, you will never have seen a leaf without a root, or a root without a leaf, in the proper order of things. As I tend my garden, so do the Wildmages tend the world, by their bargains and prices keeping the world as much in balance as I with my hoe and dipper. Anyone in Sentarshadeen will tell you the same, for we are a long-lived people, who have not yet forgotten the Beginning of Days.”
“Then—” Kellen stumbled to a halt, unable to think of any way to phrase what he wanted to know so it wouldn’t come out as a question. “I would like to hear more about the Wild Magic, and the history of the Elves,” he finally said.
The Outstretched Shadow Page 50