To Light A Candle ou(tom-2 Page 27

  “I do not expect it.” I carry too many unpaid debts these days. She quickly flung the cloak over Lairamo’s shoulders and pulled the hood down over her face, showing her—by touch, since Lairamo was now invisible—how to hold the cloak to keep herself concealed. Then, with her hand on the shoulder of the now-invisible presence before her, Idalia and Lairamo made their way out of the cave.

  They moved more slowly than Idalia would have liked, for Lairamo had to stop and look for the marks that Idalia had left, but they gradually made their way toward the surface, and freedom.

  All along Idalia worried more for those waiting than for herself. They were pressing their luck every moment the party waited outside the cavern mouth—if this were her home, she would certainly post a watch over its entrance. But perhaps the Shadowed Elves did not think like Elves, or like Men. Or perhaps letting the captives escape was just another aspect of the trap.

  All went smoothly—though with agonizing slowness—until they reached the path around the underground “village.” Idalia recognized it by the feeling of space, and by the faint glow of the firepit below—not enough for human eyes to see by, but enough to mark the place, since she had passed it so many times already this evening. She only hoped the creatures were all asleep, but thought that was too much to hope for—the meat she had seen roasting earlier argued that they were hunters, and probably hunted at night. She strained her ears for sounds from below.

  Suddenly she heard what she had feared and dreaded—the stealthy approach of bare feet on rock. There was a faint click—as of a spear butt hitting rock—and a flurry of muttered whispers.

  She felt invisible hands plucking at her frantically. Perhaps Lairamo had tried to shout a warning, not realizing that the tarnkappa would muffle all sounds.

  “Go, Lairamo!” Idalia shouted. “Go on for Sandalon’s sake!” Praying the woman would heed her, she turned and fled back in the opposite direction, her eyes tightly shut, hoping desperately that she remembered the tunnels as well as she’d claimed.

  A chorus of guttural cries greeted her flight—no more need for silence now that the prey was wise to the hunt—and Idalia heard the sound of bare feet slapping against stone as the creatures ran after her.

  —«♦»—

  LAIRAMO stood frozen in horror as five creatures out of nightmare ran after Idalia. None of them so much as paused to glance at her, so strong was the Wild-magery of Idalia’s cloak. A choking sensation rose in Lairamo’s throat as she realized that Idalia had given up her life to draw the hunters away, so that Lairamo could gain the surface alive.

  For the young Prince, Lairamo thought, her heart stone-heavy. Grimly, she turned away to look for the marks that would lead her to the surface.

  —«♦»—

  “PACING won’t get them here any faster,” Kellen said to Jermayan.

  The Elven knight shot him a dark look, and did not reply.

  Everyone was standing to saddle, ready to ride the moment Idalia and Lairamo appeared. It was better than tempting fortune by lingering here a moment longer than they had to. Vestakia was standing watch now at the edge of the trees, adding her own magical senses to that of the unicorns, alert for trouble. If the creatures Idalia had named Shadowed Elves came near to the surface, Vestakia would know.

  Kellen had been dearly tempted to send the others on ahead, but he did not want to split the party into two small groups. If there were an ambush laid along the way, they needed to be at their full strength.

  So they waited.

  Suddenly Sandalon gave a high scream of terror, and a moment later, Lairamo appeared, kneeling beside him and clutching him to her chest, stroking his hair and gabbling apologies for having frightened him. The tarnkappa was pooled at her feet.

  “It was the cloak, my heart, I forgot the cloak, oh, forgive me, my darling—”

  Sandalon clung to her, sobbing in relief.

  Jermayan snatched up the cloak and shook it, as if its empty folds might somehow produce Idalia.

  “Idalia,” was all he said.

  Lairamo looked up at him, her face filled with grief and misery. She looked at the tarnkappa as if she wished to burn it on the spot.

  “Only one could wear it. She was seen. She ran… deeper into the cavern, lest—Lest I be discovered.”

  “Come on.” Kellen barely recognized the voice as his own. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “I’m staying,” Jermayan said, wadding the tarnkappa in his hands.

  And probably charging right in there after her, if no one stops you, Kellen thought.

  “Vestakia, you go with them,” Kellen said, continuing as if Jermayan hadn’t spoken. “You’ll need to keep watch along the road, to let them know if there are any traps along the way. Jermayan and I will keep watch here, and bring Idalia along when she comes.”

  The way he said it, it almost seemed as if it were possible. And if he were to think of it logically, they should all leave now, together. But Idalia was a Wild-mage of great power, and Kellen wasn’t ready to give up on her quite yet. As for Jermayan, well, the world would fall apart around him before anyone could make him leave.

  “Leaf and Star be with you,” Evanor said quietly.

  Vestakia and the knights quickly mounted, taking Lairamo and the children up with them, and rode off in the direction of the Crowned Horns, the unicorns leading the way. In moments the clearing was deserted except for Jermayan, Valdien, Kellen, Shalkan, and Idalia’s palfrey.

  “I’m going in after her,” Jermayan said.

  “No, you’re not,” Kellen said, snatching the tarnkappa out of the Elven Knight’s hands. “Not if I have to knock you senseless to keep you from doing it.”

  “As if you could, Knight-Mage,” Jermayan said. But there was a grudging willingness to listen in his voice. Kellen might be able to convince his friend, if he spoke quickly.

  “One, we both know Idalia can take care of herself. Two, neither of us knows where she is. Three, she hasn’t been gone that long—not if she’s leading pursuit away deeper into the mountain. What we’re going to do is wait for her—here, where she knows to find us. If she hasn’t come back in a reasonable time, then I’ll do a Finding Spell, and based on what that tells us, we’ll come up with a plan. But I don’t know whether those things can sense Wild Magic, so I don’t want to do one before it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Very well,” Jermayan said grudgingly. “I will wait. For a while. But do not try my patience for long.”

  —«♦»—

  IDALIA ran through the darkness, her hands outstretched in front of her to keep herself from running full-tilt into a wall. She dared not slow her headlong pace, for she could hear the sounds of pursuit close behind. She no longer knew where she was in the cave system.

  A flung spear made her flinch aside, then another, and suddenly there was no rock beneath her feet, only air.

  Idalia fell.

  —«♦»—

  CILARNEN awoke lying on the floor in a tiny room that could only be described as a cell. It was a cubicle a bit less than eight feet square—though at least three times that in height—with a stone bench at one end. The only light came through a small grille set in the door. When he ran to the door and looked out, he could see that the corridor was as featureless as his cell, though it was lit to blinding brightness by globes of hovering Magelight.

  He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, gulping several times to try to banish his fear. When they had begun this adventure—and he now realized, with the clarity of despair, that in some sense it had been an adventure for all of them—it had never occurred to any of them that it could end like this.

  He had no idea of where he might be, though he knew he was in the hands of the High Council. Somehow they had discovered what they were doing, and arrested them all.

  He hoped the others were all right.

  All right? Cilarnen’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen to them, but he
doubted any of them was going to be “all right.”

  He walked stiffly over to the bench and sat down, leaning back against the wall. Whatever the Council decided, he knew his own fate. His father would burn the Magegift from his mind and disinherit him.

  What in the name of the Light was he supposed to do with the rest of his life? He was a Mage. That was all he was. That was all he’d ever wanted to be. To study the intricacies of the High Art—to use his power for the good of the City—to perhaps, someday, create a refinement of one of the spells in the Great Book and to gain his father’s seat on the High Council or even to serve beside him.

  And now it was all over.

  He wasn’t even nineteen yet.

  What in the name of the Light did you think you were DOING?

  It was like awakening from a beautiful dream only to discover that it had been a nightmare all along. Everything had seemed so plausible: with the umbrastone, they could convince the High Council to listen to them before the City was in ruins.

  Idiot. Idiot. Whatever made you think they’d listen to you when they wouldn’t listen to half the Mages in the City? All you’ve done is bring disgrace on House Volpiril and ruination on your friends! Farmer Kellen couldn’t have done better. With the thought of Kellen Tavadon, a new thought struck him. If the High Council made Lycaelon Tavadon’s son disappear, maybe they’ll send me to the same place.

  Strangely, the thought brought comfort.

  —«♦»—

  AT the same time Cilarnen was awakening in his cell below the Council House, Setarion Volpiril was being escorted into Lycaelon’s private offices as the chorus of Second Night Bells echoed through the City.

  He had not, of course, been asleep. The High Mages were, by necessity, creatures of the hours of darkness, since the quiet night hours were best for the elaborate workings of the High Magick. He had been called from the Grand Circle—which was by day the Council chamber—by the Arch-Mage’s personal authority, and escorted to Lycaelon’s office by six stone golems and the Arch-Mage’s personal private secretary.

  Anigrel stood aside to let him pass, then followed Lord Volpiril into the office. He kept his face carefully neutral, betraying no hint of the exultation he felt. Tonight was the culmination of plans carefully-nurtured for years—plans that would deliver such a blow to the Golden City that would weaken it past all ability to defend itself.

  He had seen Lord Volpiril before—almost daily, in fact—but for the first time, it struck Anigrel how very much Cilarnen resembled his father—the same russet hair, the same pale blue eyes. Proper Mageborn breeding saw to that, of course. Among the sons of the Mageborn, only Kellen Outlaw had not taken after his father… in more ways than one.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Volpiril demanded before Lycaelon had a chance to speak. “You interrupt the Working upon the City-Wards—we shall have to begin again from the beginning—all that time, all that preparation— wasted! This had better be worth my time.”

  “Another will take your place,” Lycaelon said calmly. “Be seated, Lord Volpiril, and calm yourself. Because of your long service to the City—however misguided—I have brought you here tonight to offer you a choice.”

  Whatever Volpiril might have been expecting to hear, obviously it was not this. He turned sideways, glancing back at Anigrel, who was still standing beside the door.

  “I repose all confidence and trust in Anigrel. And what you will hear from him has every bearing on the decision you will make here,” Lycaelon said.

  “Decision? What decision?” Volpiril demanded, sweeping his robes about himself and settling into the seat opposite the Arch-Mage’s desk. His pale eyes glittered with exasperation.

  “Whether to give up your seat on the Council and retire utterly into private life. I am willing, in that case, to accept your oath and parole, providing you do nothing to interfere with Cilarnen’s trial and Banishment.”

  “Cilarnen?” Lord Volpiril half-rose from his seat, thought better of it, and settled slowly back again. “What has the boy to do with anything? He is at home asleep in his bed.”

  “He was arrested not two bells ago—for treason,” Lycaelon said. He smiled, gazing fully into his enemy’s eyes.

  “Treason!” Volpiril leaned back in the low chair, visibly shaken. “I do not believe it. I will not believe it!”

  “A dozen Mages saw him—and the cabal he had formed—preparing to make umbrastone,” Anigrel said, speaking for the first time. “There can be no doubt.”

  “Where would he have gotten such a notion?” Lycaelon demanded, his grey eyes hard. “Where would he have gotten the materials—the information? There is only one place. Oh, he has not been questioned yet. Whether he is questioned… that is up to you.”

  “But I am innocent! I knew nothing of this! Question me under Truthspell, and by the Light, I will give you your proof!” Volpiril demanded, his face the ashy grey of shock.

  “My dear Setarion,” Lycaelon said, shaking his head ruefully. “I am certain that you no longer remember your part in this. No Truthspell would implicate you, as you well know. And I doubt young Cilarnen remembers who it was that set his foot upon the path to treason. But your recent actions in Council speak for themselves about your oft-professed love for the City.”

  “My—recent—actions—” Suddenly Volpiril grew even paler, if that had been possible. Seen in the light of this, his demands to remove the protection of the City from the farmlands outside it, and the subsequent results, would look like the beginning of a plan to destroy Armethalieh.

  “No. There is no profit to be had from this, Setarion, and the best you can hope for is to escape with your own skin intact,” said Lycaelon. “Either resign your seat, and retire utterly from public affairs, or I shall see you tried for treason beside your son. And when you are Banished with him—as you shall be—I shall see House Volpiril brought down to ruin, and all who bear your name shall live out their days in poverty and shame.”

  Anigrel’s face was impassive. Lycaelon’s was almost as expressionless, but there was, perhaps, the trace of a gleam in his eye.

  “Choose.”

  Lord Volpiril got to his feet, trembling with rage, and perhaps—at last— even with fear.

  “This is a plot,” he said, his voice hoarse with anger.

  “Indeed,” Lycaelon said. “And your son was its instigator.”

  “You leave me no choice.”

  “There is always a choice,” the Arch-Mage said dispassionately.

  There was a moment of tension, then Volpiril bowed his head.

  “Very well,” he said in a low voice. “I resign.”

  “And I have your oath that you will work no further treason?” Lycaelon asked silkily.

  Volpiril’s head snapped up, and he took a quick step toward Lycaelon, fists clenched. For a moment Anigrel, watching, thought that Volpiril might actually attempt to strike the Arch-Mage, and regretted leaving the stone golems outside the door, but Lycaelon had judged the character of his enemy well.

  “You have my oath,” Volpiril said, his voice a groan. “I shall work no treason— against the High Council, against the City… or against the Arch-Mage.”

  As he spoke the words, Lycaelon lifted his wand from his desk and sketched a glyph in the air, keying the prepared spells. Each one drifted outward from the walls and settled over Volpiril’s body, binding him more firmly and eternally than golden chains.

  “Very good, Lord Volpiril,” Lycaelon said, a note of patronizing approval in his voice. “Now go home.”

  Anigrel opened the door for Lord Volpiril, and closed it quietly behind him. He wondered, in a disinterested fashion, if the man would still be alive by morning, or would contrive to end his life in some spectacular fashion. Certainly he no longer had anything to live for.

  “Come, sit,” Lycaelon said to Anigrel, indicating the chair beside him. “Now we have made a place for you on the Council, but I am not finished yet. Breulin and Isas must go—they are impli
cated as well, are they not?”

  “Jorade Isas is the great-great-grandnephew of Lord Isas; his heir, I believe, as Lord Isas has never married. Geont Pentres is the youngest son of House Pentres, which is allied to House Breulin. I believe a case can be made for both lords’ involvement,” Anigrel said smoothly.

  “You’re certain Cilarnen was the ringleader—at Lord Volpiril’s instigation?” Lycaelon demanded eagerly.

  “Absolutely. His magickal abilities were rated by his teachers at the Mage College as exceptional. I would not be at all surprised to learn that there were spells of compulsion involved on at least some of the others.”

  Lycaelon smiled. “Very good. A little judicious mind-healing, and Pentres and young Isas won’t remember their parts in this terrible matter. I will offer that to Lord Breulin and Lord Isas as an inducement to see reason. If they will not, of course, there is no reason to believe that their dependents have the proper character to wield the High Magick, now is there, Anigrel?”