It was something Jermayan preferred not to think about. Elves were not Mages. Humans were Mages. Demons—Leaf and Star wither and blast them— were Mages.
Elves were not. Elves had given up their magic long ago, in the childhood of the world. They had done so in order to save the world, and the Light—but that was something that was not spoken of outside of the Sanctuary of the Star. Humans and other races were not to know of this… he was not certain that even a dragon should be told.
Then again, he was not certain that a dragon didn’t already know.
“Then if you will practice, I will take your children to the fortress,” Ancaladar said, sounding both resigned and amused. “But you know I cannot land there. It was built when your kind had… reason to fear dragons.”
“Andoreniel will send a message. We will land at the foot of the causeway. I think the children will be safe there for as long as it takes to get them inside.”
“With what you have learned, certainly,” Andoreniel said. “And now… practice. Make a flower.”
Jermayan stared at the snow doubtfully.
“The canes are there, beneath the snow. They slumber. Wake one,” Ancaladar said.
“It will freeze and die,” Jermayan said, shaking his head.
“Then change them,” Ancaladar said implacably. “Make flowers for the cold.”
As clearly as if a voice had spoken inside his head, Jermayan could see what to do. He reached, and out of the snow beneath his feet, tender green rose-canes began to shoot up out of the snow, growing with unnatural speed.
But that wasn’t enough. Roses were flowers for summer. They would die in the cold. He reached into them again and began to change them, even as they reached out toward the ice-covered walls of the canyon and began to twine and climb.
The pale green faded to the dark green of the mature plant, then faded further, into black. But not the black of death. The black of a different kind of life. The green leaves turned pale silver. They still had the shape of rose leaves, but now were much larger and thicker, sized to take in all the pale winter sunlight they could, and protect their fragile blossoms from the snow and ice.
The roses that had bloomed large and deep red a moment before fell from the twining vines in a shower of silken petals, replaced by tiny perfect white blossoms the size of Jermayan’s thumbnail. They covered the now-dense vines like tiny stars.
Jermayan staggered back, leaning into Ancaladar as the spell ran its course. The jewel shapes faded from his mind, and the rapid growth of the ice roses slowed.
“See?” the dragon said. “Roses in winter. When the weather warms they will die back, but in the cold season they will bloom again. You have shaped a new thing. Proper magic for a dragon and his Bondmate.”
You made me do that, Jermayan felt like saying. But he didn’t. Only the power had come from Ancaladar. He had made the roses.
They were beautiful. They were harmless. There was nothing threatening about them.
He didn’t know why they disturbed him so.
“You’ll have to wear some sort of harness when you carry the children,” he said aloud. “We don’t want them to fall off.”
Ancaladar blew out a long gusty breath.
“Now call fire,” he said, not answering directly. “It’s important, and useful, and you need more practice. A lot more practice.”
Chapter Twelve
To the Crowned Horns of the Moon
IT TOOK A fortnight to make a proper set of harness for Ancaladar. The dragon grumbled quite a bit about it, but seemed, in the end, actually pleased with the results.
Then again, it was Elven workmanship, which was never less than spectacular. He did not look like a “pack mule” as he claimed; as a matter of fact, he looked as if he had been fitted for a splendid costume of black leather and shining, sapphire-enameled metal. And there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the dragon was inordinately pleased with his appearance.
Idalia left the House of Healing after only a few days more, but she went to Jermayan’s house to live, not back to the home she’d shared with Kellen. It was as if Jermayan’s Bond with Ancaladar had eased some unshareable burden she’d been carrying—or perhaps it was only that having come so close to death, she now realized that there were things in life that should not be delayed.
Her departure left Kellen alone in the house they’d shared, but not for long. Within a day of Idalia’s departure, Kellen discovered he had mysteriously acquired an assistant, one Vertai, whose business it seemed to be to keep Kellen’s wardrobe in order, the larder stocked, simple meals available, and everything generally as tidy—or even more so—than when Kellen had shared the place with Idalia. Where this fellow had come from, Kellen had no idea; he was certainly more efficient and a lot more pleasant than any of the Tavadon servants had ever been.
In part, this might have been because Kellen rarely saw Vertai. Once he’d granted the man permission to come and go as he pleased—after consulting Jermayan, who seemed to think it was a good idea—Vertai seemed to do all his work while Kellen was at the House of Sword and Shield. It was like having a completely invisible servant, and one who managed to anticipate everything Kellen could have thought of.
Kellen had thrown himself back into his interrupted training with a vengeance. He knew that all around him important things were happening—Jermayan was learning magic, Idalia was creating weapons for the upcoming campaign against the Shadowed Elves, Andoreniel was calling up his allies and gathering the Elven army for the assault on the first of the enclaves of the Shadowed Elves—but nobody was telling him about them directly, or even asking him what he thought about them. He’d just been shunted aside, as if his opinion wasn’t worth anything.
Was it arrogant of him to think otherwise? Should he really have a place on the Elven Council, setting policy for the Nine Cities? He knew he didn’t want that. Trying to think like the Elves—trying to talk like the Elves—would drive him crazy within a sennight. Maybe less.
But still…
It doesn’t matter, Kellen told himself fiercely, standing alone in the Great Hall of the House of Sword and Shield, practicing what Master Belesharon called the “simple forms” until his muscles ached and his tunic and leggings were plastered to his body with sweat. They won’t listen to you, whether you’re right or not. JERMAYAN wouldn’t listen to you. And the Shadowed Elves DO have to be destroyed. It’s just that… we can’t be concentrating on nothing except that. Shadow Mountain is being a lot smarter now. This is a diversion. It’s an important diversion, but it’s only a diversion.
I have to find a way to make them listen.
And I have to figure out what Shadow Mountain’s REAL plan is.
Without thinking, he broke form and spun around, his sword raised to block. Master Belesharon was standing behind him, his teaching staff raised to deliver an admonitory blow to an inattentive student.
“You seemed lost in thought, young Kellen,” Master Belesharon said mildly.
“I was,” Kellen said, smiling wolfishly. But not so lost in thought that his Master could catch him out as if he were a novice.
Master Belesharon smiled in turn. “Come. Bathe. Take tea.”
When they were both immersed in the deep tub of the bathhouse—Kellen no longer even noticed having to walk through the snow to get to and from it— and a younger student had poured them both cups of dark fragrant tea, Master Belesharon broached his point with the unusual directness that Kellen had come to believe was a privilege of age among the Elvenkind.
“Soon you will hear, young Kellen, that Hyandur the trader has returned to Sentarshadeen. As you know, it was thought appropriate that he approach the City of a Thousand Bells to bring them warning that the Shadow walks the hills once more.”
Kellen considered all the appropriate things he could say, considering what he knew about Armethalieh, and what the High Council thought about Elves. “I am pleased to hear that he has returned safely,” he said at last.
“Doubtless this is because he was never permitted to enter the city, nor to deliver his message,” Master Belesharon said, his voice neutral. “The city of your birth remains unwarned, and has promised death to any of our kind that approaches its walls again.”
“That…” Makes perfect sense. Because they’re idiots. “I thank you for telling me this, Master,” Kellen said. Even though the water of the bathhouse tub was as hot as he could stand—hot enough to soothe away all the aches and bruises of a day’s hard training—he felt his muscles tense beneath the scented water. Any mention of Armethalieh was like poking at a sore tooth.
“Hyandur said further that the City of a Thousand Bells begins to expand its borders once more. They had reclaimed the Delfier Valley as he left. Perhaps they will attempt to reclaim more land. He believes there had been unrest in the city before he came, and it seemed to be of a serious nature. Two were Banished that he knows of. Perhaps more. He warned those villages he passed on his way here of the city’s plans. Word will spread.”