But he didn’t really want to be alone with him either. Paying his price was one thing. Refraining from throttling Cilarnen for new annoyances was another.
“Have you seen much of the camp?” he finally said.
Cilarnen shook his head. “After I thawed out, I stayed with the Centaurs. Comild—he became the leader of the levy that gathered at Stonehearth after Kindrius died—said it was best to stay out of the way of the Elder Brothers as much as possible.”
“Good advice as far as it goes, only you aren’t going to be able to do that anymore. You’ll never be an Elf, but they’ll make allowances for that. Your manners are good, when you bother to use them. So pay attention and learn how to fit in.”
“The Elves don’t seem very … useful,” Cilarnen said tentatively. “All they seem to do is talk about tea and the weather … and half the time I can’t figure out what they’re saying! And their armor—your clothes—it’s all so … pretty.” From Cilarnen’s tone, “pretty” was not a compliment.
“Elven ways are not human ways. Sometimes they don’t make sense at first. Sometimes they never make sense to humans at all.” Kellen tried to sum up everything he had learned in a few simple sentences. “They love beauty, so much that they try to make everything into an art. That means fighting and weapons too. Let me tell you, that pretty armor is strong, and tough, and flexible. It’s saved my life more than once.”
As they spoke, Kellen found that he was walking in the direction of the horse-lines. A good destination. There’d be time to give Firareth a little exercise—and to test Cilarnen’s riding skills as well.
By the time they got there, though, he was weary with more than a night’s lost sleep. Every answer he gave Cilarnen seemed to breed more questions. So he had armor? Was he a Knight? If he was a Knight, where had he learned to fight? How could magic teach someone to fight?
Though Kellen knew that half Cilarnen’s questions were an honest attempt to gain the information that would allow him to fit in to his strange new world and the other half an attempt to distract himself from his worries, they still nibbled at Kellen’s composure like a swarm of hungry mice at a bread loaf. Leaf and Star—he didn’t know the answers to half of them—and the ones he could answer, he didn’t know how to, not in any way Cilarnen could understand.
Any mention of the Wild Magic seemed to simply baffle Cilarnen, like attempting to explain color to a blind man. True, it had confused Kellen when he began to study it, but even then he’d realized that there was a pattern within it—somewhere.
Cilarnen seemed wholly unable to grasp that pattern—or even the idea that there could be a pattern.
He’s not a Wildmage. He’ll NEVER be a Wildmage.
They reached the horse-lines. And Cilarnen—blessedly—shut up, staring at the waiting ranks of destriers.
“I thought we’d go for a ride this morning. I’ll have to go out and catch Firareth first, though. What were you riding when you came?”
Cilarnen seemed to wilt slightly. “A mule. A very nice mule of course—his name is Oakleaf, but—Kellen, the Elves keep their promises, don’t they?”
“Did someone promise you something?” Kellen said carefully.
“When I came from Stonehearth, Lady Sarlin gave me a horse. Her name was Tinsin. She was a plowhorse—the Centaurs didn’t have any riding horses, of course. She wasn’t very fast. Nemermet—our guide—didn’t like that. He took her away from me. He said she’d be well treated, just as if she were Elven stock, and returned to Stonehearth in the spring, but …”
“Then she will,” Kellen said firmly. “The Elves honor their allies, and if you told Nemermet that Tinsin was your responsibility, he’d take that very seriously.”
“Oh,” Cilarnen said. He seemed to relax a little. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Be sure,” Kellen said seriously. “Don’t ever call an Elf a liar. Don’t even think it.” Or you might find yourself in a Challenge Circle, and I’m not even sure you can lift a sword. “Remember about them making everything into an art? Their honor is an art, too, and they spend a lifetime perfecting it.”
They walked out into the herd. Kellen stopped to pat familiar friends, looking for Firareth. He should be with the nearer herd, those who still had riders.
“They’re all so beautiful,” Cilarnen said longingly.
“Elven-bred, from the Fields of Vardirvoshan, and trained for war,” Kellen said. “We should be able to find you something faster than a mule—you’ll need it, to keep up with the army when it’s on the move. How well do you ride?”
“Better than you do,” Cilarnen said smugly.
That’s the last straw Kellen turned to the nearest horse handler, who was moving through the herd. “I See you, Anamitar. It would please me greatly to know if Anganil has yet found a rider.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Gifts and Promises
THE YOUNG BLACK stallion was yet unpartnered. By the time Kellen had brought in Firareth and saddled him, Anganil had been brought to the horse-lines, and his gear had been brought from storage. He wore no armor, and his saddle-trappings were now all in white.
By the time Anganil was saddled, they’d collected something of an audience.
Kellen supposed it wasn’t very nice of him to set Cilarnen up for a quick flight into a snowbank—but Leaf and Star, the boy needed to stop making so many assumptions!
“He’s war-trained,” Kellen warned, swinging into his saddle. “He’s young, and he hasn’t been ridden for a while. If he likes you, and you can stay in the saddle, he’s yours to ride for as long as you’re with the army.”
He felt safe in making that much of a promise, especially since Cilarnen’s possession of Anganil wasn’t likely to extend much beyond the next five minutes. After that, they could find him something he could handle.
He tried not to think of Ciltesse, who had chosen Anganil, hoping Kellen would ride him. Ciltesse would have enjoyed this moment very much.
Or been appalled by it.
But apparently Cilarnen did know something about horses. He took the time to make friends with the stallion, stroking his nose and speaking gently to him. Kellen offered him a piece of honey-cake, and Cilarnen fed Anganil the sticky-sweet morsel.
So far, so good.
When Anganil had accepted his presence, Cilarnen quickly mounted. The stallion held perfectly still, merely lifting one hind hoof and setting it down again.
Once they’d ridden away from camp, however, it was a different story. It was just as well that Cilarnen was—as he’d claimed—a good horseman—as Anganil was fresh, playful … and very, very bored.
After the third time the stallion plunged sidewise in feigned panic at a swirl of wind-drifted snow, Kellen said, “You’d better give him a run before he really starts playing up. Come on.”
He spurred Firareth into a canter, then a gallop. Anganil was only too happy to follow.
Kellen figured they’d probably have time for a good gallop up to the end of the camp and back. In the distance, he could see others taking advantage of the rest and the comparatively good weather; there were teams of draft mules out, clearing a level practice field for the cavalry units to drill on later, and groups of Elves were even building the elaborate and mysterious snow-sculptures he’d seen back in Sentarshadeen after the first heavy snowfall.
Anganil overtook Firareth, and Kellen let him. Cilarnen still seemed to be in control, but Kellen could tell he was having to work for it.
Then he saw Shalkan.
Shalkan was pacing them, several hundred yards farther out. The white unicorn was a ghost against the snow, running effortlessly along the top of it. Kellen waved, and Shalkan tossed his head in response.
Then, suddenly, Cilarnen saw Shalkan as well.
He stared, transfixed, at what was obviously the first unicorn he’d ever seen. For one moment, no part of his attention was on Anganil.
And Anganil knew it.
The stallion put on a burst of speed,
then leaped into the air. He came down on his forehand, ducked his head, and kicked out hard with his hind legs.
Cilarnen went flying over his head into the snow. Anganil sprang sideways and began to run in good earnest.
Oh, no—
Kellen had wanted Cilarnen to take a fall—but not that hard a fall!
He checked Firareth and vaulted from the saddle, running to where Cilarnen lay sprawled in the snow. “Are you all right?” he demanded. If he’s dead—or hurt—Idalia will kill me. And I’ll deserve it. Stupid, stupid, stupid—
But Cilarnen seemed only to be breathless—and indignant.
“He threw me off!” Cilarnen said disgustedly, allowing Kellen to help him to his feet. He looked around, searching for Anganil. “And now he’s bolted.”
“He knew you weren’t paying attention. Those are some of the war moves I told you about.” Kellen helped him up, almost giddy with relief. “Don’t worry. Shalkan will bring him back.”
“That—was a unicorn,” Cilarnen said, once he’d mounted up behind Kellen, and they were riding off in the direction Anganil had gone.
“Yes it was.” Kellen smiled a little at the wonder in Cilarnen’s voice. “His name is Shalkan, and he’s my friend. There’s a dragon here, too. His name is Ancaladar. You’ll probably see him later.”
Shalkan had herded Anganil in a wide circle, and now the destrier was running toward them, the unicorn at his heels. Kellen moved Firareth to block the young destrier’s path. Anganil, sensing that the game was up, stopped and stood quietly, switching his tail innocently.
“You have the oddest ideas of fun,” Shalkan said, coming forward. “I suppose this is Cilarnen?”
“It can talk!” Cilarnen blurted.
Kellen groaned inwardly and closed his eyes. Poor Cilarnen. When Shalkan got done with him—
“Oh, my, yes,” Shalkan said in his archest tones. “Quite as well as a human. Isn’t that surprising? Of course, I’ve had a great deal more practice at talking than you seem to have. Why, I can form complete sentences and say exactly what I mean, for example.”
“But—I mean—I didn’t—That is—” Cilarnen stuttered.
Kellen ignored the byplay. He dismounted, walked over to Anganil, led the young stallion over to Firareth, and tied his reins firmly to Firareth’s saddle. He didn’t intend to spend the rest of the morning chasing Anganil through the snow if Anganil took it into his head to dash off again. Then he walked over to Shalkan.
“He doesn’t know about unicorns because nobody teaches anything about them in the City—anything important, anyway,” Kellen said, in a voice low enough that Cilarnen probably wouldn’t hear. “Which you know already. And I haven’t had time to explain everything to him yet.”
Cilarnen clambered down from Firareth’s back and came over to them. Apparently Shalkan was willing to permit his approach, for the unicorn stayed where he was.
Cilarnen was staring at Shalkan, oblivious to the falling snow. “Can I touch him?” he asked, and the note of raw longing in his voice would have melted a much harder heart than Kellen’s.
“You have to ask Shalkan,” Kellen said. “It’s not my decision.”
“May I?” Cilarnen asked, speaking directly to Shalkan now. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just—You’re so beautiful.”
“He’ll give you a honey-cake,” Kellen said cunningly, rummaging in his tunic.
“Bribery,” Shalkan scoffed, lowering his head and pawing at the snow—but apparently the combination of contrition, bribery, and flattery was sufficient. After crunching his way through the honey-cake held on Cilarnen’s outstretched hand, Shalkan allowed himself to be touched. From the look on Cilarnen’s face, he was willing to stand there forever, stroking the soft fur of Shalkan’s neck.
“We need to get back,” Kellen finally—reluctantly—said. He actually hated to tear Cilarnen away. The boy looked utterly smitten.
“Will I get to see you again?” Cilarnen said to Shalkan, sounding forlorn.
Kellen could tell that Shalkan was trying very hard not to laugh, but the unicorn’s voice, when he answered, was admirably steady.
“Oh, have Kellen bring you up to the Unicorn Camp whenever he likes. You can meet the rest of us there.” With that, Shalkan turned and trotted off.
Cilarnen turned to Kellen, his whole face a question.
“You didn’t think Shalkan was the only one, did you?” Kellen said. “Come on.”
He’d expected Cilarnen to ride back with him, but Cilarnen moved confidently toward Anganil.
“Cilarnen—”
“Yes, yes, yes. He’s thrown me once, and now he’ll see if he can do it again. I know.” He looked over his shoulder at Kellen, with determination in the line of his jaw. “But you said I could try.”
Yes, Idalia would kill him. And she’d skin him first. But how could he not give the boy a chance? He was learning.
He was learning faster than Kellen had, in some ways.
“Go ahead. Try not to get killed.”
He waited, holding Anganil’s headstall, until Cilarnen had mounted, and then handed him the reins.
The ride back went pretty much as Kellen had assumed it would—with one exception: Cilarnen was not thrown again. Once Anganil realized that this very entertaining spectacle was not to be allowed to repeat itself, he quieted down completely, and the two destriers trotted sedately side-by-side back to the horse-lines.
Cilarnen had only a little difficulty removing the unfamiliar tack, and soon they were on their way back to Kellen’s pavilion again. And there was no doubt whatsoever that although meeting Shalkan must have been the high point of Cilarnen’s life, riding the destrier had been the second highest. He was so full of wonder and ebullience that a little of it actually bubbled over and made Kellen’s spirits rise.
“I’ve never ridden a horse like that before!” Cilarnen said excitedly.
“You’ve never seen a horse like that before,” Kellen corrected him.
“Hyandur—” Cilarnen began.
“Rode a palfrey—a riding horse. Not a warhorse. Anything Elven-bred is beautiful,” Kellen conceded, “but the destriers are special. Very, very special.”
Kellen opened the flap of his tent and stepped inside, calling light into the lanterns to brighten the gloom. He noticed that Isinwen had already lit the brazier and stoked it high; it was actually warm in the tent.
And Isinwen had indeed been busy. There was a ewer and bowl waiting on the low table that had previously held the tea service, and piled on the clothes chest were Cilarnen’s new clothes.
Not only was there a full outfit, including boots, gloves, and cloak—with, Kellen did not doubt, more to come—it all matched (at least as far as Kellen could tell), and since it looked turquoise in the light of Kellen’s tent, it was probably blue.
Kellen picked up the gloves. Now here was something odd. There ought to be a pattern woven into the leggings, embroidered on the tunic, stamped into the leather of the gloves and boots. But there wasn’t.
How, he wondered, had Isinwen managed that?
“Here you go,” he said, gesturing at the clothing. “Get dressed. You might even have time to get something to eat before we’re supposed to be there, assuming your appetite’s back.”
Cilarnen had carried the tunic over to the doorway and was studying it in the light. “Blue,” he said in disgust. “Like a Student.”
“That’s purely accident,” Kellen said forcefully. “Isinwen chose the color because he thought it would be becoming to you. The clothes are warm. You’re not a Knight, so you’re not stuck with the color. You can change it. You can ask for clothing to be made for you later in any color you like.”
“To my House colors?”
“Maybe.” Kellen tried to remember what they were, and couldn’t. “Not if the Elves don’t think they’re suitable for your complexion though. And only Knights really have specific colors.”
“Is that why everything you have is gr
een?”
Here we go again. “It matches Shalkan’s eyes. As you’ve probably noticed. Now, it would please me greatly if you would honor me by getting dressed. You’ll be warmer, and you’ll be appropriately garbed for the occasion.”
Cilarnen pulled off his gloves and began to unlace his short cloak. “I suppose, since you’re my friend, you’re telling me the truth about the clothes,” he said dubiously.
“I’m not your friend,” Kellen said with simple bluntness. Certainly not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Cilarnen stopped. “Then … why did you give me Anganil?”
Kellen thought hard—and honestly. “To teach you,” he finally said.
Cilarnen removed his cloak and set it aside. For a few minutes he was occupied—in silence—with changing from old clothes to new, stopping for a quick wash in between. Isinwen had even been able to provide a belt with a couple of carrying-pouches, though Cilarnen’s own Centaur-made knife would have to retain its own sheath until a new one could be made. It would look odd, but if he wore it toward the back, it would be hidden by the cloak.
When Cilarnen was dressed, he tucked his gloves through his belt in the fashion of Armethalieh, and smoothed his hand down the thick velvet. “You wanted to teach me that this is neither Armethalieh nor Stonehearth,” he said, understanding in his voice.
“Yes,” Kellen said. “Once more, you must begin again.” I hope you can. He held out the cloak—hooded, ankle-length, and lined in ermine.
Cilarnen no longer looked like a rustic Wild Lands farmer. He looked elegant and patrician.
“Kellen,” Cilarnen said in a troubled voice. “Remember that I told you I saw the Thing at Stonehearth?”
As if I’ve forgotten that for an instant.
The Obsidian Mountain Trilogy Page 157