The water in the jug—by now sour and brackish—was nearly gone when Cilarnen heard footsteps in the hall again. Not Stone Golems this time. The softer footsteps of leather boots on stone.
When the cell door opened, he could almost have cried with relief—he had nearly convinced himself that Undermage Anigrel had lied: that he was not to be Banished at all, but left in this tiny cell to starve and die of thirst. But he caught his breath in dismay at the sight of two City Constables in the deep scarlet uniform of the City Watch.
They were fully armed with truncheon and halberd, and regarded Cilarnen with expressions of disgust and contempt.
“Time to leave, Outlaw,” one of them said. He tossed a bundle to the floor. It skidded across the stone and stopped at Cilarnen’s feet.
He reached down and picked it up. Some kind of a pack. And a Felon’s Cloak.
He had seen Felons paraded in the City Square, of course: social unfortunates condemned to wear the lurid yellow Cloak with its black Felon’s Mark for a sennight or a moonturn for some infraction of the City’s laws. But never— never!—had he thought that the day would come when he, a Volpiril, would be forced to handle such an object. Though the cloak was thick and warm—made of heavy felt—the fabric was harsh to the touch, and stank of cheap dye. He wondered who had worn it last.
“Put it on, Outlaw. And give me your Talisman. You don’t belong to the City any longer,” the Constable said.
Cilarnen touched the Talisman he wore around his neck. Though they might wear it on a leather cord or a cotton string or a silver chain or one of gold and jewels, every citizen of Armethalieh wore the same gold rectangle, marking them as a citizen of Armethalieh.
Now it was to be stripped from him.
With shaking fingers—feeling more light-headed than either hunger or panic could account for—Cilarnen unlaced his tunic and drew out his Talisman on its jeweled golden chain. The sapphires were colorless in the dimness.
It took him a long time to undo the catch, to work the Talisman to the end of the chain and slip it off, and when he got to his feet and walked over to the Constable, golden rectangle in hand, the man wouldn’t take it. Cilarnen stood there for a long moment before realizing that the man would not touch him, then bent and set the Talisman carefully on the floor. He’d thought nothing could make him feel worse than waking up and knowing he’d been stripped of his Gift, but losing his Talisman—his last tie to the City—was somehow worse. He clasped the chain again carefully and tucked it back into his tunic.
“Now put on the Cloak, pick up your pack, and let’s go,” the Constable said, drumming his halberd-butt on the floor of the cell to emphasize his point.
Quickly Cilarnen picked up the Cloak. As he did, the Constable picked up his discarded Talisman and put it into the pouch on his belt.
“Put it on, Outlaw!” the man barked, apparently having used up what little patience he possessed.
Thoroughly cowed, Cilarnen quickly put on the Cloak and pulled the hood up over his face. It tied at the throat with a drawstring, but his hands were shaking too hard for him to manage that, and he settled for wrapping it around himself. He picked up the leather pack and held it in his arms, uncertain of what to do with it.
One of the Constables stepped outside the door. The other—the one who had done all the speaking—gestured with his halberd for Cilarnen to follow. Cilarnen staggered after him, wincing at the brightness of the corridor after so long in the dimness of his cell.
He wanted to cry, to scream, to run. But there was nowhere to run to.
He followed the Constable up a flight of stairs, wishing now only that the nightmare would end as swiftly as possible. As he neared the top of the stairs, he heard the first notes of Evensong begin, and discovered, with sick surprise, that he was in the Western Courtyard. Ahead lay the Delfier Gate, with the lesser gates within the Great Gate standing open. Waiting for him.
It was sunset—of what day? a foolish part of his mind wondered—and the day had been bright and clear. He hesitated, shivering as he breathed in the cold winter air, and was rewarded with a sharp poke in the back from the Constable’s halberd. It registered only dimly through the thick fabric of the Cloak, but that the man had dared to do it was shock enough.
“Keep moving, Outlaw.”
The golden bell of the Council House joined the Evensong, its booming ring so close that Cilarnen winced as he staggered forward. Constant proddings in the back urged him to quicken his pace, and soon he was almost running toward the open gate.
He stopped in shock the moment his feet touched dirt. He was outside the walls.
Behind him the Lesser Gates boomed shut. Cilarnen stood there in numb shock as Evensong slowly faded into silence. He clutched the Cloak around himself, shivering with cold—back in the cell he would never have thought he’d be happy to have it, and it was not nearly as warm as any of his own warm winter cloaks, but it was far better than nothing at all. He took the time, now, to tie the drawstrings at the throat closed, but the cold made him clumsy, and he dropped the bag he’d been holding. It hit the ground at his feet.
As he picked it up, he remembered Undermage Anigrel’s words. The bag contained bread and water. Food!
He tore open the sack, revealing another penance-loaf and a full waterskin. He tossed the sack away and drained half the waterskin in a few gulps, then tore into the loaf, wolfing it down hungrily. It did much to still the growling in his belly, but when it was gone he was still outside the gates of the City.
It was dark—twilight—and growing darker quickly. He was colder than he’d ever been in his life—as much because he knew there was no welcoming hearth and hot cider at the end of his journey as because of the temperature. He ought to just sit down right here and wait for dawn. But some strange impulse of restlessness made him head down the rutted cart track that led away from the City.
—«♦»—
ONCE he might have summoned Mage-light to light his way, Cilarnen thought bitterly, as he stumbled along in the dark. Or at the very least, he might have Called Fire to warm him. Now all he could do was grope his way from tree to tree, unable to understand why he didn’t simply lie down in the middle of the road and wait for it all to be over.
But something deep inside wouldn’t let him.
He startled at every unfamiliar sound—and there were many. The very bushes seemed to be alive with unnameable creatures, and moonturns of neglect had left the road crusted with ice and hard-packed snow. Cilarnen fell several times before he learned to walk upon the treacherous surface.
At least—once the moon rose—the whiteness of the snow made it a little easier to see where he was going.
How far was it to Nerendale? That was the nearest village to Armethalieh— he knew that much of the world beyond the City walls. He would reach it— somehow—before dawn—force them to give him food, shelter…
No. He would take a horse. They must have horses. With a horse he could outpace the Outlaw Hunt, and be beyond the bounds of the City Lands before it reached him.
He could not quite remember when it had become so important to outrun the Hunt. It hadn’t been anything like a conscious decision. If he’d had anything approaching a plan for his future, it had been to face the Hunt: surely there would be a Mage with it, to control it? Perhaps he could ask for more time to make his way out of City lands? Or perhaps the Hunt would escort him the rest of the way? That must be it. All that talk of Undermage Anigrel’s about the Hunt tearing him to bits had only been to frighten him. It must have been. How was he supposed to know where the boundaries of City Lands lay? It wasn’t a subject studied at the Mage College, after all. The night spent outside the walls must only be a punishment, and the Hunt sent to escort the Outlaw to the boundaries of the City Lands in the morning. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
But now he’d abandoned all notion of awaiting the Hunt. The only thing that mattered was getting as far away as he could as fast as possible.
Then he saw the light.
Here in the darkness, among the winter-bare trees, it was easy to see: a bright spark, burning steadily. For a moment Cilarnen wondered if his eyes deceived him. He blinked hard, but it was still there, somewhere tauntingly ahead.
With renewed purpose, he moved toward it.
“I See you, human child.”
The cool voice came out of the darkness when Cilarnen was still too distant from the light to make out anything but that it burned. He stifled a yelp and froze where he stood. Though he strained his eyes against the darkness, he could not see the speaker, though from the voice, whoever had spoken must be very near.
“You have seen my lantern.”
This time the voice came from nearer yet, though he’d seen no sign of movement. Cilarnen ground his teeth shut on a moan of terror.
“I see by your raiment that you have been cast out by the Golden City.”
This time the disembodied voice actually seemed to expect some reply. Cilarnen took a deep breath, mustered all his courage, and answered.
“I—Yes. I was cast out. Banished.” His voice was hoarse, but steady. Speaking reminded him of how thirsty he was, and he wished he hadn’t thrown away his waterskin when it was empty. But what good had it been to him then?
“Come. Warm yourself at my fire. The night is cold.”
Cilarnen took a shaky step forward, and immediately tripped over a stone. An iron grip just under his left elbow steadied him. He yelped aloud at the contact.
“Forgive me. I had forgotten what poor vision you humans have. I will conduct you, if you will permit.”
Cilarnen nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Even this close, his rescuer was still no more than a shadowy cloaked and hooded figure to him, although he was standing right next to him. And could apparently see quite well, for at Cilarnen’s nod, he began to move forward, leading the young Outlaw through the darkness toward the unwavering light.