“Where are they?” Kellen muttered.
“It’s a big place, your City. Give them time,” Shalkan said.
Suddenly Cilarnen and his dancers burst out on the other side of the City, all of them running side-by-side.
Kellen saw archers run to the walls. The High Mages who had been there during the battle with the White Riders had long since departed—probably to discuss what it could possibly mean in great detail somewhere much safer.
And then Ancaladar plummeted down out of the sky.
The City Wards would keep him from descending to the walls themselves, but the City Guard didn’t know that. The great black dragon made a pass over the City, as low as he could.
Kellen heard screaming. The archers fled from the walls.
“Won’t do a lot for our position as their saviors, but it will keep Cilarnen from getting shot,” Shalkan commented.
“Right now that’s all I’m worried about,” Kellen said fervently. “Let’s just hope they don’t figure out there’s nothing Ancaladar can actually do.”
“Hard to figure out anything when you’re hiding under a bed,” Shalkan replied.
SECOND circuit. Now trails of colored light followed the unicorns, hanging in the air behind them as they ran. Somehow Kellen had expected them to make the same moves this time as before, but they didn’t. The passages were more elaborate, different, conducted at a faster pace. They moved as if they were sets of human dancers, tracing elaborate figures across the trampled ground.
And once more they vanished around the curve of the wall.
Ancaladar was still wheeling and swooping over the City, like an enormous and terrifying bird of prey. It would be someone very brave—or very foolish—who dared to go up on the walls to shoot at the unicorns.
Or a High Mage.
Why don’t the High Mages attack? Kellen wondered. In their place, he would have given such an order long ago.
But without the Arch-Mage—or Anigrel—he suspected there was no one left in the City willing to take the risk of doing so. From everything Cilarnen had told him about what had happened in Armethalieh in recent moonturns, the place was even more hidebound than it had been when he left. Now nobody dared to do anything without the High Council’s express permission. And the High Council didn’t dare to do anything without the Arch-Mage and the Mage-wardens’ approval. And Anigrel controlled the Magewardens.
So at the moment, nobody in Armethalieh probably dared to do anything at all.
Again Cilarnen and the unicorns appeared, this time enmeshed in a web of colored light. It trailed behind them, the streamers taking longer now to fade away, and the unicorns’ bodies glowed so brightly that they cast shadows against the pale stone walls of Armethalieh, even in the winter sunlight. Anganil was covered in foam—Kellen could see that much from where he stood, and he could imagine the rest; how the black stallion’s lungs labored for air, his sides heaving with exertion as he fought for breath.
“This is the last circuit,” Shalkan said.
“If Anganil should fall …” Kellen said.
“It will all have been for nothing,” Shalkan said, “if they cannot complete the last circuit of the spell.”
Now the unicorns turned and spun in the most elaborate set of figures yet, with Cilarnen and Anganil at their center. The black stallion ran in a straight line now, parallel to the walls, just far enough from them that the Unicorn Knights could weave back and forth around him.
“Someone’s going up on the walls,” Kellen said.
In the distance, he saw three figures ascend the walls, their upper bodies just visible over the top. Robed Mages. Over their gray robes, they wore the black tabards of Magewardens.
He heard Redhelwar call out to the archers to prepare to loose, but at this distance, the shot was an almost impossible one, and any arrow that fell short might hit one of the unicorns.
Suddenly one of the standing figures fell, an arrow through his shoulder. The others looked skyward, pointing.
Jermayan.
Ancaladar could not penetrate the City Wards, but an Elven arrow could.
And Jermayan was an expert marksman.
The two remaining Magewardens hesitated. Jermayan fired again—apparently a warning shot, as neither fell. Ancaladar swooped as low as he could.
They fled, carrying their wounded comrade.
Cilarnen and the unicorns passed around the curve of the City walls for the last time.
“They will try to stop him at the docks,” Kellen guessed.
“If they dare,” Shalkan said. “Ancaladar can be … very persuasive when he tries.”
“Then we’ve got to assume he’ll succeed. And we must prepare to enter the City.”
“Good luck,” Shalkan said. “I’ll see you when the battle is over.”
Kellen hugged his friend—it might be for the last time, but he had to believe that it wouldn’t be—burying his face for a moment in the soft fur of Shalkan’s neck. Just for a moment, he inhaled the spicy cinnamon scent of unicorn. Then he took his helmet from Firareth’s saddle and settled it into place, mounted Firareth, and rode back to take his position with the Elven Army.
Shalkan trotted away.
AS he rode back toward the army, it felt as if he rode through water. All around him he could feel Cilarnen’s spell building to its climax. It made his skin itch, made the air he drew into his lungs feel thicker than fog. He wondered if the other Wildmages could sense it as well.
Idalia and Vestakia were waiting with Redhelwar. Vestakia was barely able to stay in her saddle. She was nearly doubled-over in pain and weakness, though Kellen doubted that she sensed the High Magick at all. Kellen did his best to ignore her distress, knowing that his indifference was the only help he could give her now.
“You’ll need to see me to the gates, brother dear. Then, I expect, your place is here.” Idalia shook her head, as if flies buzzed around her. “Not long,” she said, sounding hopeful.
Kellen nodded. Soon Cilarnen’s spell would work or it wouldn’t—and either way, this wave of High Magick that surrounded them would crest and break.
They’d talked about having him accompany Idalia into the City to talk to the High Mages, but his battle skills were too vital to the army. Jermayan would go with her, and Cilarnen. If Cilarnen of House Volpiril could not convince the Mages of Armethalieh to ally themselves with the Allied Army against the Demons after what they’d seen today, then no one could.
“Vestakia?”
The fact that she was here—rather than back with the Healers—must mean that she had something that needed to be said. She was stubborn—it was what had kept her alive all these years—but she wasn’t foolish. She wouldn’t take risks that didn’t need to be taken.
“He will attack soon. She is keeping most of Them with Her. At the Shrine. But there are others He can call upon. I cannot sense Them, but… She does not want Him to attack, but He will, I think.” Vestakia forced the words out in effortful gasps, as beads of sweat ran down her face.
“Then it is time for me to give you this,” Redhelwar said, holding out his hand to Kellen.
On Redhelwar’s palm rested the green-stoned ring he had gotten from Andoreniel.
“This is your time, Kellen,” Redhelwar said. “Use us all well, in the name of Leaf and Star.”
He had never meant for this to happen, but as Kellen stared at the ring, a sense of rightness, of inevitability, settled over him.
This was the moment he had been training for, had been shaped for, from the moment he had been born. Every person he had ever known, everything he had ever done, had led him to this day, this hour.
He took the ring, and with it the command of the entire Elven Army.
“The gods of the Wild Magic guide us all, Redhelwar,” he said softly. He slipped the ring into his belt pouch.
“Vestakia, go and wait with the Healers. Redhelwar, you must see Idalia to the City gates. Isinwen, my compliments to Nithariel, and it would plea
se me greatly if she would see if the Enemy is indeed moving up to prepare for battle. Dionan and Ninolion, I wish to change the dispositions of the troops; you will oblige me by telling the Centaurs they are to take the center, Wildmages in their center. The Knights will flank; split them evenly by commands. I will send further orders once you have begun. Adaerion, please bring me Belepheriel at once.”
“I see them,” Idalia said, looking behind him. “Cilarnen’s riders.”
Kellen barely glanced up; he was still giving orders. If they were about to be hit, they were not, by Leaf and Star, going to be in the same positions they’d been in a thousand years ago. With the heavy cavalry-infantry—the Centaurs—as their center, they could absorb the first assault of the Enemy and hammer it with the fast-moving flanking wings of Elven cavalry, rather than having the cavalry hemmed in by the slower-moving Centaurs.
But suddenly the wave of magick … broke.
Kellen reined Firareth around.
The Unicorn Knights had swirled to a stop in front of the Gates of Armethalieh. And for a moment, the City Walls themselves glowed brighter than the sun in the sky.
Then the light faded.
The Unicorn Knights turned away. Anganil began to walk, very slowly, back toward the Allied lines. His head was hanging and his sides heaved. Cilarnen dismounted and led him as the Unicorn Knights formed a protective honor guard. The stallion had truly given his all for the spell.
And there was a creaking, crackling, crashing sound from within the walls of the City itself.
“The towers are falling,” Idalia said, very quietly.
Armethalieh was known as the City of a Thousand Bells, and most of those bells were suspended high in lacy decorative spires.
Set by magick. Worked by magick. Held in place by magick.
Cilarnen hadn’t just taken down the Wards of the City Gates.
His spell had removed the Mage-spells from the entire City.
And now the towers that were sustained by magick were crumbling to earth.
With the Wards gone at last, Ancaladar settled on the wall and leaned over the edge of the Gate.
“Time to go,” Idalia said.
“You’d better take Cilarnen another horse,” Kellen said.
“We’ll ride double,” Idalia said. “Not much use for horses in the City, as I recall.”
“Good luck,” Kellen said.
“Leaf and Star,” Idalia answered.
She and Redhelwar rode out to meet Cilarnen.
“Go and take Anganil,” Kellen said to Reyezeyt. “The unicorns won’t be able to approach the army.”
He returned to giving orders.
PRINCE Zyperis stood in the midst of his army. His beloved Queen and Mama had given him command of all but the Dark Guard itself. Them she had taken with her to winnow the remaining villages in the Delfier Valley, for the sacrifice to come must be prepared in blood, and the last of their previous captives had gone to fuel the Concealment Spell that had allowed her to approach the City walls and steal away the Great Sacrifice.
When the hateful sun had left the sky, it would not rise again, for tonight, Time would stop forever. The blood of the Great Sacrifice would be spilled upon the Standing Stones, and He Who Is would enter the world once more.
And grant to she who had given him his return, power and favor above all the rest of his creation. She would see all, know all.
Know how her son had plotted against her.
And would punish him.
Forever.
There must—there must!—be a way out of the trap that Zyperis saw closing so inexorably around him. But he could not see it. If he destroyed the Great Sacrifice now, sabotaging Savilla’s spell, he doomed himself, for her wrath would be inventive and lingering.
If her spell succeeded …
He was doomed as well.
He could feel some sort of Magery building in the distance, at Armethalieh, but his Queen had told him that Armethalieh was no longer a matter for their concern, now that the Sacrifice was theirs. Once He Who Is walked the world again, the Endarkened would have more than enough power to smash them all: Elves, Wildmages, High Mages: all. All he need do was remain here in case the Elven Army attempted a futile rescue attempt of the Sacrifice. Then he could amuse himself by destroying them.
Amuse himself. As if he were still a child, to be distracted with toys. She still underestimated him.
As he had underestimated her.
The time that he could safely have slain her had passed.
The Magery he felt was a creation of great power, disturbingly so. Yet it was not directed at them—the Enemy—but at Armethalieh. Foolish Lightborn! Was it possible that—even now—they did not know who their true enemy was?
Then the spell reached its peak.
Zyperis felt the wave of magic crest over him. It was painful, as all spells of the High Magick were to his kind, but it could not truly harm him. Only a blending of High Magick and the Wild Magic could do that, as they had learned to their cost. But the pain brought with it knowledge, as the dying ebb of the spell told Zyperis everything about its construction and its purpose.
The Wards were down. The City was open.
Cloaking himself in invisibility, he flew to the edge of the forest to see what had transpired. But he did not see what he expected to see.
There was a dragon—a dragon!—crouched upon the City walls. Instead of the radiant wellspring of Power that he had expected to see, that he had yearned to capture for himself, its magic was dim and flickering, nearly extinguished.
Beneath its watchful gaze, the gates stood open. A troop of Elves rode forward, into the City.
But the attack that Zyperis expected did not come.
No gray-robed High Mages strode forward to cast them out with savage spells.
If the Wildmages and the High Mages make an alliance …
Even now—oh, surely, they could not win! But it might cost more of the precious lives of the children of He Who Is.
If he could prevent that, his Mama might be pleased.
He might save his own life.
She had told him not to attack the City for any reason.
But she did not know about this. Surely she would wish him to prevent this if she did know.
It would be far simpler for him to ask her for forgiveness later.
He could certainly fly down into the City by himself. He was the Prince of the Endarkened, and the City lay helpless and unWarded before him.
But… he had just seen a Wildmage enter. And he knew there were High Mages there. He had no intention of being killed when there were easier, safer ways of accomplishing his goal.
Zyperis flew back to his army and gave the order to attack.
Chapter Seventeen
Sealed to the Light
YOU HAVE DONE well, my sweet slave.”
Lycaelon Tavadon heard the words only dimly. His mind was filled with horror. So much, so many impossibilities, had happened in so short a time, that he could not think.
He felt ill, feverish, as if he had drunk poison.
Every time he opened his eyes, all he saw was the monsters that had walked the land in the Black Days of ancient memory, the legend of their existence preserved in texts permitted to the study of only the highest ranks of the Mageborn—and then, only when they had proven themselves both sincere in devotion to the City and truly possessed of a need to know.
And his son, his beautiful son, was laughing.
“My Dark Lady, my glorious Queen,” Anigrel said. “You are more beautiful than I could have dreamed. But… why am I here? I must return to the City, to take down the Wards so you can enter.”
“No. The time for that has passed.”
“Anigrel …” Lycaelon moaned.
He realized he was lying on the forest floor. Dim memories of a nightmare ride through trees came back to him. They had been riding out of the City to greet their new allies, and then … and then …
He struggled to
his knees, forced himself to open his eyes.
Anigrel stood beside one of those … creatures. Her wings were spread, mantling his body. His face wore a look of radiant triumph.
“The Arch-Mage looks confused,” she said.
A thrill of sick horror coursed through Lycaelon to hear human speech coming from such a creature. Bile rose in his throat.
“Perhaps you should explain yourself to him. It would please me very much.”
“Dear Father,” Anigrel said fondly. “Here is my true and only mistress. I have served her all my life, from the time I was a child. Everything I have ever done has been to her glory. There have never been any plots among the Mageborn, nor was House Volpiril guilty of anything, save, perhaps, ambition. I created young Cilarnen’s cabal myself. I murdered Lords Vilmos, Arance, and Perizel. The information brought to the Council through the Magewardens is all lies. For moonturns we have tampered with the City Wards, allowing the influence of the Endarkened to spread throughout the City, and now they will claim their ultimate victory. Today.”
The Demon standing behind Anigrel gasped, as if in ecstasy.
“Lies… ?” Lycaelon said. “You… lied to me?”
“I did not lie. I told you I acted for the good of the City, and so I have. It is good that Men serve their proper masters. The Endarkened. We have been a blight upon the land for too long. No longer.”
“You have learned all your lessons well,” the Demon told Anigrel. “Now you will serve me in the best way you can, and have the reward I promised you so long ago.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Anigrel whispered.
She put her arms around him from behind, running her hands over the heavy silk of his Magerobes. The rank-tabbard he wore, embroidered both with House Tavadon’s colors of black and white and with Anigrel’s own chosen colors of gold and red, covered with the elaborate heraldry of his rank and honors, slipped from his shoulders and fell to the muck of the forest floor.
Anigrel tilted his head back, exposing his throat, as he sighed in ecstacy and utter submission.
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