“Well, we know that whatever you are, you’re not a Wildmage—nor meant to be one, it seems,” Wirance said thoughtfully.
“I am a Mage of Armethalieh,” Cilarnen said. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. Half-trained—maybe never better-trained than this—and lacking most of his tools, but still a Mage of the Golden City.
And he would save her if he could.
“A great pity we do not know more about what that means,” Wirance said, slipping his Book back into his pack. “Perhaps the Elves will be able to help.”
Cilarnen nodded politely, but privately he doubted it. Hyandur had been kind, but as much as he stretched his imagination, Cilarnen could not imagine the Elf tutoring him in magick.
—«♦»—
“WE should be near the border of the Elven Lands soon,” Comild said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind wailing through the trees—as Wirance had predicted before they’d left Stonehearth, the fair weather had only held for so long, and for the last several days they had been traveling through increasingly heavy snow. More and more, Cilarnen found himself longing for the comforts of the City—it never snowed in winter there, and there was always hot water whenever you wanted it. Hot water, hot food, hot baths…
“Declare yourselves.”
The voice came out of nowhere. A figure had appeared in their path where none had been before—hooded and cloaked in white furs that made him almost impossible to see through the snow. He held a short bow pointed at them, an arrow nocked and ready.
“Wirance, Wildmage of the High Hills, brings Comild of the Centaurkin and his warriors to answer Andoreniel’s call,” Wirance answered.
“Yet do I see one among you who is neither Centaur nor Wildmage,” the Elf observed, his weapon unwavering.
Cilarnen had been riding at the front, with Kardus, Comild, and Wirance. Now he wished he’d stayed toward the back. Maybe they just wouldn’t have noticed him then—though that was unlikely. On Tinsin’s back, he towered over the rest of the troop.
“I am Kardus Wildmage. It is my Task to bring the human Cilarnen to Kellen Wildmage,” Kardus said, stepping forward.
There was a long pause. Cilarnen blinked, unable to believe his eyes. Suddenly there was a second Elf standing beside the first. The two of them were identical in every way, except that the second Elf held a long staff instead of a bow.
“You will accompany me,” the second Elf said.
He turned and walked off through the winter forest, without waiting to see if they followed.
As they rode through the trees, Cilarnen realized they must be in Elven Lands now. He looked back, but the first Elf had vanished again.
They rode now in silence broken only by the whistle of the wind and the crunch of the snow beneath their hooves. Where before the quiet had seemed companionable, now it was awkward, as if all of them felt that someone might be listening and judging all that they might have to say to one another. For the first time it occurred to Cilarnen that he could have been stopped and turned back at the border. What would have happened then—to him and to Kardus, since Kardus would have been unable to complete his Task? Would it have been like the magickal backlash to a spell of the High Magick gone wrong? Or would Kardus simply have camped on the border until his patience wore them away?
Their guide walked steadily onward, never looking back. At last, as the short winter day drew toward a close, they reached a clearing that had obviously been prepared for them.
Windbreaks had been strung between the trees in a half-circle around the clearing to block the brunt of the winter wind. The ground had been swept clear of snow and leaves very recently, and Cilarnen could see that it was as smooth and level as the floor of a house. The sense of this place being a sort of outdoor house was heightened by the fact that in the center of the clearing was a tall cylinder. Its exterior was covered with the most beautiful tilework Cilarnen had ever seen, and through the openings in the side, he could see the gleam of embers.
A stove? Who would put a stove out in the middle of a forest?
Elves, he supposed.
“All you need is here. Others will come for you. Remain until they do,” the Elf said.
With that their guide vanished, as if he’d possessed no more substance than the snow itself.
“Elves,” Comild said with a sigh of relief as their guide departed. “Elder brothers, and all, but still…” He trotted into the clearing, the other Centaurs following him.
Cilarnen hung back. It wasn’t that this place made him uneasy—not even as much as Wirance did, and down deep inside, he trusted Wirance—but ever since they’d ridden across the Elven border, he’d had the peculiar sense of being inside a dream he couldn’t wake up from, and this place just made it worse.
Kardus looked up at him inquiringly.
“Kardus… back at the border… if they hadn’t let the two of us through, what would you have done?” Cilarnen asked.
“We would have waited until they did,” Kardus replied simply. “It is my Task to bring you to Kellen Wildmage, and yours to go.”
“But how long would we have waited?” Cilarnen asked, pressing for information.
“Until they did,” Kardus said. “I have been in Elven lands before. The Elves are not like humans, nor like Centaurs. They are cautious, but they are not unjust, nor would they deny a Wildmage who needed to complete a Task. Sentarshadeen, the King’s city, lies near the border. If we did not leave, they would send to Andoreniel, and he would tell them to let us pass.”
So his guess had been right. Kardus had been perfectly prepared to wait the Elves out. Cilarnen felt—relieved. Kardus wasn’t going to abandon him.
“Are we going to Sentarshadeen?” Cilarnen wondered what a whole city full of Elves would look like.
“I do not know. But come. It is cold here, and Elven stoves give good heat.”
The Elves had left them more than a well-prepared campsite and a stove with a good fire. At the edge of the campsite were more provisions: casks of cider and mead, bread, cheese, and the carcass of a deer, skinned and dressed for roasting.
After weeks on the trail with nothing but dried food and trail-rations to sustain them, the Centaurs fell upon the fresh food with shouts of delight, and soon the savory scent of roasting meat filled the clearing, and the smoke of bubbling fat spiraled up toward the trees. As they waited for the chunks of meat to cook, they shared out the bread and cheese, and filled their tankards with cider and mead.
After trying the mead, Cilarnen stuck strictly to the cider—he’d had a thorough education in alcohol by now, and the mead in those barrels packed a kick like a Centaur’s hoof. Maybe if things were different, he might welcome the release that came with surrendering to the light-headedness that a bit of intoxication would bring. But here, now—no. The last time he had relaxed, a Demon had come. When it happened again, he would not be unready.
Wrapped in his blankets, belly full, some of Cilarnen’s sense of unreality faded, leaving him time to worry about what was to come.
What was he going to say to Kellen Outlaw when they found him? Cilarnen wasn’t quite sure. The Demon’s words were etched in his memory—he’d never forget those—but their meaning seemed constantly slippery. There was only one thing he could be really sure of.
He had his Gift.
And he shouldn’t.
—«♦»—
CILARNEN woke—as had become his habit long before they’d set out on this journey—just before dawn. In Stonehearth, Grander’s house would already be awake and stirring; he would wash and dress, grab a quick breakfast of porridge and hot watered ale with the other apprentices, and go off to his morning chores at the stable. On the trail, his first duty in the morning was to see to the fire.
He’d learned to sleep with his boots inside his bedroll. He pulled them on without letting too much cold air in and got to his feet, his blankets wrapped tightly around him. There was a moment of shocking cold as he dropped the blankets and pulled his hooded cloak around himself, then Cilarnen was ready to face the day. The Centaurs were just beginning to stir.
Last night Kardus had showed him how the Elven stove worked. The Elves had left a good supply of the charcoal disks they used for fuel. Cilarnen opened one of the bottom gates of the stove. Good. There was still a good bed of embers left. He picked up several of the disks and set them on the embers, then went to see to Tinsin. There was a water trough nearby, but they’d emptied it last night. He supposed he could fill it with snow and melt the snow to give her and Wirance’s mule a morning drink.
But when he reached the place where the animals were tied, there was an Elf there.
Automatically, Cilarnen glanced down at the snow. There were no footprints.
“This is not a riding animal,” the Elf observed, regarding Cilarnen unblinkingly. He looked enough like Hyandur to be his twin. Did all Elves look alike?
“Centaurs don’t have saddle horses. I had to ride something,” Cilarnen said. “Are you—”