There.
That was the root of his anger and fear.
He didn’t fit in here either. He was just as alone here as he had been in the City.
Kellen bit back a heartfelt sob.
Oh, it was a completely different situation, of course. In Armethalieh, conformity was the highest goal. Here, everyone valued him for being different. His Knight-Mage gifts were esteemed and honored.
But he was still different. Set apart. In a way that even Idalia wasn’t.
And now, if Cilarnen came and fit in…
You’ll be jealous. You’ll still be jealous. Of him.
Kellen managed a shaky laugh and wiped his face dry once more.
But he thought he’d worked his way to the heart of the problem. It had been as painful as lancing an infected boil, but he felt better now. And he thought that tomorrow, when he faced Cilarnen, he could judge him fairly—for whatever he was.
I won’t like it. I won’t like HIM. But I can do it.
Thoroughly exhausted now, Kellen rolled into his bedclothes and doused the lanterns with a gesture.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Shadows of the Past
COLD AIR AND a hint of movement woke him. Kellen rolled out of his bedclothes and grabbed his sword in one fluid movement. Someone was moving toward him. He reached out and grabbed the front of the intruder’s tunic, flinging him to the bedroll he’d just vacated, the edge of his sword at the shadowy figure’s throat.
“Hey!” the intruder yelped. He must have felt the cold of the steel at his throat then, because he went absolutely still. With a gesture, Kellen lit the lanterns.
And stared down at someone who could only be Cilarnen Volpiril. He’d seen that face, Kellen realized with a shock—and since his Banishing. It was the same face that had appeared in Idalia’s scrying bowl the day he’d gone to Ashaniel to ask her to warn Armethalieh: russet hair, pale blue eyes, narrow aristocratic Mageborn features. He was freshly shaved, and his hair was still cut short in the manner of the City, but no proper Mageborn son would have a complexion so roughened by wind and weather.
“Cilarnen Volpiril,” Kellen said in disgust, getting to his feet. “Close the flap,” he said without turning around, “it’s cold in here.”
When he turned to pick up his sword sheath, he got a good look at his second “guest.”
The Centaur had waist-length hair—black, with a broad white streak—and, uncommon for male Centaurs, was clean-shaven. His tail had a white streak in it as well, and he had three white feet. Charms were braided into both his hair and his tail, and around his neck, over his tunic, he wore a necklace from which were strung many more. Kellen’s mind caught up with his body, and he knew then what this was all about.
“You must be Kardus,” Kellen said, sheathing his sword. How a Centaur could still be a Wildmage without having magic was a question for another time. He reached for his tunic and pulled it on. “I’m Kellen. Is your Task fulfilled?”
“Yes,” Kardus said. “My Task was to bring Cilarnen to you. But I have grown fond of him on our journey. I would stay to help him, if I may.”
For a moment Kellen thought of ordering him out, then shrugged. “It’ll be cramped, but sure. Tea?” He was glad, now, that Dionan had left the tea-things behind. It occurred to him that maybe he’d better apologize for nearly decapitating Cilarnen. “Ah, sorry about the welcome. We sleep lightly around here; it wouldn’t be the first time that the Enemy has tried to infiltrate the camp.”
He rummaged around until he found his camp boots and slipped them on, and began setting up the tea brazier.
—«♦»—
“DON’T you want to know why I’m here?” Cilarnen demanded.
When he’d awoken in the Healer’s tent several days ago—unutterably relieved to discover that Kardus had kept the Wildmage Healers away from him— he’d wanted to see Kellen immediately.
Only Kellen, it seemed, wasn’t here.
Nobody was willing to tell him when—or even if—Kellen would be back, either, and so for nearly a sennight Cilarnen had waited in the Centaur camp, hoping for word.
Tonight he’d finally heard that Kellen had returned—from a Wildmage Healer who had been with Kellen at someplace called the further cavern—but still the invitation Cilarnen impatiently expected didn’t come. Finally he’d taken matters into his own hands. He’d demanded that Kardus show him the way to Kellen’s tent, or he’d go by himself, and a little to his surprise, the Centaur Wildmage had agreed without argument.
He hadn’t expected the tent to be green silk.
He certainly hadn’t expected to be attacked when he opened the flap and stepped inside.
“I said—” he repeated.
“Probably to annoy me,” Kellen answered coolly, and went on with his tea preparations as if Cilarnen wasn’t there.
Cilarnen regarded Kellen with a mixture of fear and despair. He had to listen to what Cilarnen had to say!
But this was not the same Kellen he and his cronies had taunted back at the Mage-College. Oh, they’d called him “Kellen Farmboy” even then because of his hulking size, but now…
He was muscled like a dock-laborer and surely even taller than he’d been then. There was nothing of the Mageborn about him. He looked nothing like Lycaelon Tavadon—he looked like one of the High Reaches folk—and his hair was long enough to braid.
And then there was that sword. As large and heavy as a Ritual Tool, but Kellen handled it as if it weighed no more than a practice rapier. And his speed—
Cilarnen had never seen anyone move that fast in his life—not even the Centaur warriors. He’d barely taken two steps into Kellen’s tent before he’d been seized and flung to the floor, feeling something cold and sharp at his throat, and when Kellen had lit the lanterns—by magic, Wild Magic—he’d seen that Kellen was holding that monstrous blade to his throat, glaring down at him with a face like Death Itself.
And now he was making tea.
“My news is urgent,” Cilarnen said. “It concerns the good of the City.”
“It can wait until the tea is ready,” Kellen said maddeningly. “Or, of course, it can wait until the morning. I really don’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.”
“You’re still thinking only of yourself,” Cilarnen said bitterly. “But then, you always did.”
“Have you always been an idiot,” Kellen asked pleasantly, “or did frost-burn addle your brains? You don’t know anything about me, you’ve come halfway across the world to ask for my help, and now you’re insulting me. What would your father say?”
“He’s dead,” Cilarnen said bleakly. “I killed him.”