3 When Darkness Falls.8 (24 page)

"Idalia. Ninolion. My regrets that my present accommodation forced you to await me in the street; it was especially unfortunate in view of the weather." It was, as usual, snowing. "Equally unfortunate in that I was unable to offer you tea, a lapse which I hope to repair at your earliest convenience."

Now it was Idalia's turn to state. She'd been quite certain — well, fairly certain, anyway — that Cilarnen was not twins. Yet the young man babbling inanely (and urbanely) along at her side just now bore very little resemblance to the intense wild-eyed young mystic who had answered Ninolion's summons to the door of his tent.

"I, too, look forward to such an occasion," Ninolion said blandly. "I believe that to take tea with you would be highly entertaining."

"One regrets, of course, that one's library of tea is not large, nor all that it could be were matters otherwise. I possess some Armethaliehan Black, and naturally some Winter Spice; I've recently been able to acquire some Phastan Red, though unfortunately it is in block form, not leaf. Phastan Silvertip, is, of course, the preferred growth, though somewhat common; connoisseurs favor Phastan Gold, which is quite rare. And naturally, as my own knowledge runs more in the line of the cured-leaf teas, I would welcome instruction and advice in those areas where my understanding should prove deficient."

At least
, thought Idalia,
Cilarnen seems to have taken to heart all of Kellen's instructions on making small talk and not trying to hurry an Elven conversation along.
Though he must have been bursting with impatience to find out what Kindolhinadetil's messenger had to say, he and Ninolion were happily chattering along about the sorts of tea that might be available in camp for Cilarnen to add to his collection, and the possibility of him getting his hands on more cured-leaf varieties, which most Elves found so bitter as to be unpalatable. Both of them were in complete agreement that the High Reaches Smokeleaf was utterly undrinkable — which only went to prove, Idalia supposed, that she would never be a true connoisseur of tea.

This conversation continued all the way to Redhelwar's tent and well inside. The messenger, Enolwiar, was introduced, and gave Cilarnen the message. It was in the form of a thin scroll in a golden case, with the implication of this particular form of delivery being that the messenger himself would not be privy to the information he conveyed. He, too, was solicited for his opinions on the matter of tea, which he was, of course, perfectly happy to provide.

The entire Shadow army might be waiting outside… and they'd have to go on waiting while the Elves finished their tea. Little brother, you had much more patience than I ever gave you credit for,
Idalia thought crossly.

When he had finished his tea, Enolwiar thanked Redhelwar for his courtesy and hospitality, and left. But Cilarnen still made no move toward the scroll-case.

"Well?" Idalia demanded, after a pause. "Ate you just going to stare at it? Or are you going to open it and see what Kindolhinadetil's answer is?"

"I'll assume he's made the tight choice," Cilarnen said, in a somewhat stifled voice, reaching for the scroll. "Since it took him this long to do it. Saying 'no' wouldn't take very long at all."

It took him a few moments to figure out how to work the catch, but at last the case opened, and the inner spindle slid free. Cilarnen pounced on the curl of vellum and scanned it eagerly.

"Perhaps I spoke too soon," he said, sounding puzzled and faintly hurt. "I can read it, but I can't tell what it says."

"Let me try," Idalia suggested. Cilarnen handed the sheet to her, but she found herself in much the same situation: staring at a page of beautifully-calligraphed and illuminated text that seemed to be… a poem. About astronomy, as far as she could tell.

It might, of course, be something else. In fact, it almost certainly was. But if it was a personal message from Kindolhinadetil to Cilarnen — and she supposed it really had to be—she had no idea of how to interpret it, either. Wordlessly, she passed the page to Redhelwar.

The army's general regarded the page for only a moment, and both the humans sensed that he was trying
very
hard not to smile.

"'To Cilarnen High Mage, of the Golden City of Armethalieh, from Kindolhinadetil Viceroy, of the House of Bough and Wind, Greetings. In this dark time, when our great Enemy attempts to quench not only the stars but the light itself, we must act in ways that in times of peace and serenity would seem to be not only madness, but treason. Therefore I counsel you to do all that you can to come into your power, to use it as a sword and shield in battle against our great Enemy. In which matter I as the hand and voice of Andoreniel urge you to do what you will do for the good of the land unless the King himself should unspeak these words.'"

Redhelwar curled the sheet around the spindle again and closed the scroll-case, passing it back to Cilarnen.

Even more-or-less translated, Kindolhinadetil's message made hard going. Idalia and Cilarnen looked at each other, and Idalia was prepared to say that Cilarnen looked as confused as she felt.

"I think he said I can try to tap the power of the land-wards, at least unless — or until — the King says I can't," Cilarnen said hesitantly.

"Indeed, to be exceptionally brief, that is the gist of the Viceroy's message to you," Redhelwar said kindly. "It is written very much in the old style, and I thought perhaps you would be unfamiliar with the conventions of the form," he added gently. "It would be good to know what it is that you will do, now that you have heard his word to you."

"I'm going to have to go and see if I can do something that I'd always been told — back in the City — couldn't be done. I'm going to make a pact with Elemental Forces. And see if I live through it," Cilarnen answered with grim cheerfulness.

* * * * *

KARDUS and Idalia had said goodbye to him as if they were sending him off to war. In a way, Cilarnen supposed they were — the only kind of war he was equipped to fight. Not a war of horses and armor, but a war of spells, of Illusory Creatures and Elemental Beings. Of dragons and unicorns. And, yes, of Demons.

High Magick could find them. High Magick could kill them. True, it had to be done in concert with a Wildmage, but the Allies seemed to have plenty of those, and he was the only High Mage there was. On their side, anyway.

For now.

The Allies talked about finding more Wildmages. They even talked about finding and training another Knight-Mage like Kellen — everybody said he was a different kind of Wildmage, but nobody had ever explained the difference to Cilarnen in any way he understood. But they all overlooked one thing.

If this worked, Cilarnen could find and train more
High Mages.

Everyone had the power that fueled the High Magick, the power that the High Magick burned the way a lamp burned oil. The difference was, the High Mages could
use
that power, not merely create and horde it. What made them respected (
feared
, a small part of Cilarnen's mind traitorously supplied) was that they had found a way to harvest
(steal)
a lot of that power, so they would have a lot of it to use. They had found that way because that method was safer, easier, and more comfortable than the method Cilarnen was about to try.

But with everyone having the power — and that meant Wildlander farmers and High Reaches families, too — that certainly meant that there were people born into those families who could use the power just as those born into Mageborn families did. It had just never been awakened in them, the way the power naturally awoke in the sons of Mageborn families from close proximity to all the magick in Armethalieh.

There might not be many, but they were out there. They had to be.

Cilarnen could find them and train them.

If this worked.

And if the Demons would give them time.

Idalia, Kardus, and Cilarnen's other friends among the Wildmages had spent the whole morning moving his tent and everything he owned up to the ice-pavilion that was going to be his new home. That way, when
(if)
he made a disastrous mistake with his spellcraft, the only person he'd blow to Darkness would be him.

Idalia had worried about how far he was from the main camp, since now the patrols were starting to see wolves in the Heart-Forest, though the Ysterialpoerines said that this was rare this early in the season (and thus a cause for even more concern than it would be normally), but Cilarnen had assured her that if his plans worked as he hoped, he would have nothing to fear from wolves. And if they did not, he would have nothing to fear from wolves for quite a different reason.

He had been very nearly rude, shooing them out of his new camp as quickly as possible, ignoring their offers to stay and help him finish setting up, or — worse yet — stay the night. But he could not afford the presence of the non-Mageborn. He had gained Kindolhinadetil's permission at last, and this was the last day for nearly a moonturn upon which he could perform the Summoning Ritual. He had an enormous amount of work to complete before the appropriate half-bell.

There were five wandering stars in the night sky over the City: Metwoch, Gwener, Tienstag, Dediau, and Shanbe. Each one governed a day of the sennight; the two leftover days were governed by the sun and the moon. In addition, the seven heavenly bodies, plus the four Magickal Elements, plus the Eternal Light, were paired to govern the ritual bells that marked time in Armethalieh in its twelve daylight aspects and twelve nighttime aspects. The Summoning Ritual must be performed under a waxing moon, upon the day and the portion of the bell of Metwoch dedicated to it. If he missed tonight, the day and half-bell of Metwoch under a waxing moon would not come again for an entire moonturn.

And that was only the beginning of his preparations.

There were braziers in the Number of Metwoch which had to be set out in precisely the right directions, the Seal of Metwoch to be inscribed upon the floor of his working area with his ritual sword, the proper incenses to be compounded and burned at the proper times leading up to the casting of his Circle, the preliminary prayers and ablutions to take care of — because contacting an Elemental

was a potentially-dangerous business and he did not wish to scrimp on any part of the procedure and cause himself unnecessary risk due to sloppy preparation and having allowed his attention to wander at the vital moment.

Normally a Mage would have an apprentice — or a number of apprentices — to do most of the scutwork while he concentrated on those tasks that only he could do. Cilarnen had to do it all himself.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy.

Cilarnen vaguely remembered Kellen from Before. In those days Kellen had been a sulky gangly boy who stank of the Commons and radiated misery like heat. Lord Lycaelon must have flinched every time he'd laid eyes on him. So much had changed! Now Kellen was happy, having apparently found something that he understood.

He'd obviously never understood the High Magick, and so he'd hated it. From the little he'd said since Cilarnen had met him again, Kellen still thought of the High Magick as really only a way to get the unGifted to grovel to you. But what he had never understood — and what Cilarnen had always known too well to even be able to articulate it — was that the High Magick was always so much more than that.

It was beauty. It was an end in itself. Cilarnen could have found true joy in spending his entire life serving its exacting specifications.

At its heart, the High Magick was a map to the way the world worked. Describe something exactly, know it utterly, and you could change it in any way you desired. How could anyone want anything more than this? Not the power — but the knowledge! See into the heart of a tree, and you could create anything you wanted, from furniture to a forest. Or you could just see the tree, and have the knowledge that it could be either one at any time you wished. Because you understood the tree from its first seedling bud to the ash of its burning.

Spells could be elegantly simple, such as the ones that made fire or heated water — or turned water to ice. Or they could be brilliantly complex, like the spells that stopped Time in order to preserve food and strengthen walls. Or they could be created from layers of several different classes of spell together to produce an effect which seemed — on the surface — to be nothing like any of them. Like Mageshield, which was at root a stasis spell combined with several other simple spells, including the spell of levitation that moved it through the air.

Once, Cilarnen's highest ambition had been to become an arcane experimenter, one of those Mages who worked day-in, day-out with the simple homely building-block spells, trying them in new combinations in an attempt to produce a useful new spell for the good of the City.

Such a possibility now seemed as unlikely as that he would live until summer.

Or that Kellen Tavadon would ever understand how purely glorious the High Magick could be.

Because he's all caught up in his Wild Magic, I suppose. Wild? Lunatic, is more like it! Truly, I've heard more sense from the headsick people my masters were called upon to cure when I was an Entered Apprentice. But it does not mean there is harm in them… so why not leave them alone instead of condemning them to death and pretending they are agents of Demonkind? It's just that their magic seems so… untidy.