He was on his feet without being quite awake, sword in hand, wondering vaguely why he’d slept in his clothes. He unpegged the tent flap to find Kharren standing before him.
“Knight-Mage,” she said courteously, “a last duty to discharge as alakomentai before you may leave your command to Isinwen. Adaerion gathers the first of the sub-commanders in his pavilion in half an hour.”
“I shall be there,” Kellen promised, bowing.
He closed the tent flap again and glanced over at Cilarnen. Let him sleep as long as he could. Kellen added his own blankets to the ones already covering Cilarnen.
Kellen had just time to thrust his feet into his boots, comb his hair straight and tie it back—no time for braiding—and buckle on his weapons before running all the way to Adaerion’s pavilion.
The day was just as cold as he’d suspected it would be.
In Adaerion’s pavilion he, along with a dozen other sub-commanders, gave his sworn oath, upon his honor, that he and all his command agreed to share in the price for the Work to come.
Afterward, Kellen felt both relieved and nervous. All the duties and responsibilities of the army had been lifted from him. All that remained was his service to the Wild Magic.
None of the Wildmages was certain of what would happen when the spell was cast. It could be as safe as a scrying spell—or as dangerous as the assault on the Black Cairn. There was no way to know except by doing.
What if this is a trap? Cilarnen is innocent—I truly believe that—but what if this is still a trap? The Demons have given us information before, knowing we would have no choice but to act upon it. If They arranged for him to find out what he did, They would also know we would do everything in our power to investigate further. Making ourselves vulnerable…
And just as with the discovery of the Shadowed Elves, there was no way to turn away from such a task. If what Cilarnen said was true—if there was any possibility that it was true—they had to know.
They had to do exactly what they were doing now.
Someday, Kellen vowed grimly, we will no longer dance to your piping, Shadow Mountain. Someday WE will choose the battlefield—and the battle. And we will win.
—«♦»—
TWO hours before noon, Redhelwar addressed the army on the drill field just outside the camp. He spoke slowly, pausing between each sentence, for his words must be relayed to the edges of the command.
He spoke of simple things—the drought that was past, the depth of the winter snows, the glory of the Springtide to come. He did not speak of what the Wildmages were about to do. He did not need to.
“We shall not go down to the Dark consenting,” he said at last. “We shall fight. Who will share with me in the price of the spell?”
It was now that the senior and allied commanders were to have come forward, bringing the oaths of their commands.
Instead, something unrehearsed, unplanned, and unprecedented—especially in the lives of the Elves, who lived by ritual and ceremony—happened.
The entire army—every Elf, every Centaur, every human there—shouted out their consent, over and over again.
—«♦»—
“LIGHT deliver us,” Cilarnen said softly, listening to the roar of the army. He and Kellen had remained behind to watch; Kellen had wanted to hear Redhelwar’s speech. They were mounted on their destriers a few hundred yards from where the army had gathered, for they would need to be inside the ice-pavilion before those who were sharing in the spell-price surrounded it.
“Consent—asked and granted,” Kellen said. “Without it we are thieves, and the Wild Magic will turn against us. Come on. It’s time to go.”
—«♦»—
THEY rode Anganil and Firareth all the way to the pavilion—those of the army sharing in the price would follow on foot—and when they got there Kellen dismounted, looping his reins back over Firareth’s saddle and motioning for Cilarnen to do the same.
“Home,” he said to the destrier, pointing back at the camp and giving him an encouraging slap on the rump. “You, too,” he said to Anganil.
Both animals trotted off toward the camp.
“They’ll go where they’re used to being fed,” Kellen said, noting Cilarnen’s look of disbelief. “The handlers will bring them in and take care of them. There’s no magic involved. It’s one of the commands they know.”
“Like ‘dump your rider in the snow’?” Cilarnen suggested, with a faint nervous smile.
“If we’re both still alive tomorrow, maybe there will be time to start training you to make use of what Anganil knows,” Kellen said absently. “I doubt you’ll ever be a knight, but you have the makings of a fine rider.”
They walked toward the pavilion, each occupied by his own sober thoughts.
The other Wildmages were already gathered here, though not all were yet inside. The Mountainfolk undoubtedly thought this was a fine calm day—even warm—and the Lostlanders were used to even harsher conditions. Some were gathered around a brazier, brewing their thick black tea and talking quietly. Others paced back and forth, their heavy furs dark against the snow.
It was the calm before battle.
Ancaladar was coiled around the pavilion, as immobile as if he’d decided to become a part of it. The dragon raised his head as they approached, his large golden eyes fixed on Cilarnen.
“This should be interesting,” Ancaladar commented, lowering his head again.
They went inside. Idalia was standing near the mirror, talking intently to Jermayan. She looked up as Kellen entered.
And saw Cilarnen.
Last night Kellen had told Cilarnen he was saving all his arguments for Idalia. Now he wondered if arguing was going to be good enough. Idalia walked over to them.
“Good morning, Kellen. Have you decided to murder Cilarnen after all, or is there another reason he’s here?” Her violet eyes flashed dangerously. She knew— they all knew—of Cilarnen’s particular sensitivity to the Wild Magic. This was the last place he should be.
“He believes he has a good reason to stand in the Circle with us. I’ve heard his reasons, and I agree,” Kellen said, matching bluntness with bluntness. “I’ve told him it may kill him. He has still chosen to come.”
“Cilarnen—” Idalia began.
“Idalia,” Kellen said gently. “No one is asking your permission.”
Idalia stared at Kellen as if seeing him for the very first time.
Jermayan appeared at Idalia’s side. Even in plain sight, even in a crowd of people, the Elven Mage could appear and disappear with a silent grace that owed nothing to magic.
“To know these reasons would make good hearing,” Jermayan said quietly, putting a hand on Idalia’s arm.
“It’s a question,” Kellen said to Cilarnen, when Cilarnen said nothing. Keyed-up as he was, Cilarnen might not have understood, and Jermayan was being very polite. “Answer it or not as you choose.”
“I think…” Cilarnen faltered to a stop and started again. “The Thing in Stonehearth saw something in me. Something that made it confuse me with Kellen. I… need to be here. To help, if I can.”
There was another silence. Idalia looked from Cilarnen to Kellen, and back again. At last she nodded—not permitting, but accepting. “As Kellen says, it’s your choice.”
“Stand where you like,” Kellen said to Cilarnen. “I don’t think it will matter.”