No Mage would have let him leave the City with his Gift intact, even if they expected him to be dead within bells. And it could not be an accident.
It must have been deliberate.
Undermage Anigrel had done this deliberately. But why? Had he hoped that the young Apprentice, if he left the Gift intact, could somehow use the High Magick to get himself beyond the reach of the Hunt? But that couldn’t be right, because his magick hadn’t worked when he’d first tried it.
Cilarnen shook his head. Whatever Undermage Anigrel’s motives, he had more pressing concerns now. He picked up the lantern and left the stable.
It was snowing, and the snow had swept the smell of smoke from the air. It should have been peaceful; it wasn’t. It was early evening, but the streets were oddly dark and quiet. Without cloak or hood, Cilarnen shivered in the cold night air. He felt unnerved and unsettled, and the silence filled him with an edgy energy.
He’d meant to go directly to Grander’s house—as he shook off the last veils of sleep, he became more worried about what had happened to his friends—but as he walked up the street, he neared the tavern next to the smithy and finally started to hear voices. He hurried toward them.
As he approached, a strange Centaur male hailed him.
“You! Grander’s boy! Come and help!”
Cilarnen came at a run.
The Centaur who had hailed him was one of the warriors who had arrived earlier that day. He was still bloody from the fight, and one arm was splinted and in a sling, but he looked vigorous enough. Looking past him, Cilarnen could see that both the forge and tavern had been converted to a makeshift hospital, and were filled with Centaur wounded.
“Someone said you were a Mage. Have you Healing skills?” the Centaur demanded.
Cilarnen shook his head, his spirits falling. “None,” he said. “Wirance—or Kardus—”
“Both occupied with worse cases than these. They will come when they can.” The Centaur looked weary. “I had hoped…”
“If there is anything I can do, I will do it,” Cilarnen said quickly. “I work in the stables. I know you are not horses, but—”
“An able body and a willing pair of hands counts for much, if you are not afraid of blood,” the Centaur said.
“After today, I do not think I will ever be afraid of it again,” Cilarnen said bleakly.
—«♦»—
FOR the next several hours, Cilarnen worked at the direction of others, stitching wounds, changing poultices over burns, and helping to draw limbs straight so they could be splinted.
Because those who had been lucky enough to escape injury were needed elsewhere—to search through the rubble of smashed buildings for trapped survivors, to build firebreaks, and to lend their strength (whatever that meant: Cilarnen wasn’t sure) to Wirance’s Wildmage spells—the injured had been left to tend to each other. Cilarnen learned, in scraps of conversations during the work, that the snow was Wirance’s doing, so that the fires the Demon had set could be contained and extinguished, since the well had been destroyed. Half the homes of Stonehearth had been either damaged or destroyed outright in its attack, though this part of the village, the farthest from the square, was untouched.
It seemed to Cilarnen that there was no end to the wounded and burned…
And then, suddenly, there was. He found himself with bandages in his hands, and no one to put them on. “Here,” said Comild, taking them from him gently and putting them with the rest of the scavenged supplies. “Go and wash yourself—there’s water over there.” He pointed with his chin, and Cilarnen saw a bucket, and at the same time, realized that his hands were sticky with blood and unguents.
Holding down a surge of nausea, he hastened to cleanse himself as well as he could.
“It will not be too difficult to rebuild the well, though it may be best to call for a unicorn to purify it,” Comild said.
“I suppose,” Cilarnen said vaguely, not understanding what a unicorn could have to do with a well. He looked up at the Centaur. “What are you going to do now? You’re not going home, are you?”
Comild shook his head. “Kindrius is dead, but it remains to be seen if any of the other sub-Captains still live. If they do, we will choose a new leader from among our number. If I am the only survivor, the honor is mine. And we go on, wounded or not. We will recover, and our allies need us.”
“You’re going to be a Captain?” Cilarnen asked.
“Not the way I would choose it,” Comild said broodingly. “I hope your friends are well. Best go and see. There’s little more you can do for my men.”
Tired once more—but in a different way now—Cilarnen stepped out into the street again. It was dawn now. He’d worked through the night. This time the cold air felt good.
He looked down at his tunic. He’d rolled up the sleeves when he’d set to work, but the front was as bloody and soiled as if he’d been working in a butcher’s shop. He blinked back tears. Sarlin’s rich gift, ruined.
He was glad—suddenly desperately glad—that he’d been able to find the words to thank her for it when she’d given it to him. He hadn’t meant them properly at the time. He hadn’t understood why he’d said it. He hadn’t understood himself.
He hadn’t understood a lot of things.
He’d find her now. He’d explain. He’d thank her properly—tell them all how much they meant to him.
He began to run.
—«♦»—
THE street that Grander’s house was on was one of the lucky ones; its houses were untouched, though the roofs of the houses on the opposite side showed some fire-gaps through the snow. The street was awake; every house was filled with refugees. Centaurs in full armor patrolled the streets, and Cilarnen realized with a sudden flare of alarm that where there was one Demon, there might be more. The village could be attacked again.
He heard his name called a couple of times, but did not stop. He had to get home.
He pushed open the door of Grander’s house. The common room was filled with Centaurs. All were villagers familiar to him, but he saw no one that belonged to the household.
“Blessed Herdsman—it’s Cilarnen!” Corela gasped. The kindly middle-aged Centauress started forward, her face a mask of shock. “We thought you must be dead—now, don’t move. Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not hurt,” Cilarnen said. “It’s not my blood. I’m all right. Are you— Is— Where is—?” He looked around, still hoping to see familiar faces, and saw none.
“Come into the kitchen,” Corela said, coming forward and putting an arm around his shoulders.
There was soup, tea, and hot ale in the kitchen. Corela dismissed the Centaurs working there with a glance, and closed the door behind them with one well-placed nudge of her hind hoof.
“There is bad news,” she said. “It is best given quickly.”
Cilarnen nodded, unable to ask.
“Grander and Marlen are gone to the Herd. They are truly dead. I’ve seen their bodies. Not pretty, but quick. Jarel has lost an eye, but he will live, they think, with scars to brag on. Erlock’s leg will heal, but it is likely he will be lame. Minor injuries only to the others of this house—so minor that they were all able to share price with Wirance, and so they are sleeping now. Sarlin, too.”
“They can’t be dead,” Cilarnen said blankly. I never told them how kind they were to me. I never thanked them.
“They have gone to the Herd,” Corela repeated gently. “And they will be reborn as good spring grass to feed our flocks. Now wash and eat. There are many tasks that need doing.”
“The horses,” Cilarnen said, with a pang of guilty realization. It didn’t matter what else had happened in the world. The horses still needed to be looked after—fed and watered and turned out for exercise. “I have to go to the stables. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Wash first,” Corela told him firmly. “And eat.”
—«♦»—