To Light A Candle

Lycaelon might have been forced to table the debate—in the name of getting other necessary work done—if Auronwy hadn’t chosen that opportune moment to enter with a message.

“Your pardon, Arch-Mage,” the young Journeyman said, leaning over to place a single sheet of velum in front of Lycaelon, “but there is a… person outside the gates, requesting an audience with the High Council.”

Lycaelon glanced up at the odd note in the Council page’s voice. The boy looked positively terrified.

“What sort of person, Auronwy?” he said gently.

“A… an… Arch-Mage, it is an Elf!” Auronwy whispered. “He—it—he asked for an audience with the High Council…”

Lycaelon glanced down at the paper in front of him. It was the standard report from the guard tower on any who approached the Delfier Gate unexpectedly, listing the numbers of the party and the general description. The creature had come alone.

“Very good, Auronwy. Now go. Rest. We will deal with this.”

He waited until the Journeyman had left the chamber.

“My lords,” he said, raising his voice to cut across the discussion. “We no longer have the leisure for debate. At this very moment, one of the proud and haughty Elven-born stands outside the Delfier Gate, demanding admission to this very chamber. By our ancient laws and treaties, we must admit him… but what purpose can he have here? Is it not suspicious that he chooses this moment to arrive?”

“Yes!” Lord Vilmos shouted. “It is the Elves—the Elves are behind it all! They must be! Send the creature away! Send it away at once!”

Lord Vilmos, Lycaelon thought, would definitely be the next to go. He had obviously reached that time of life at which the stress of Council business was proving far too much for him. But for now, the man’s willingness to jump at shadows was proving useful. His hysteria stampeded the Council as nothing else could. Perizel suggested that they call the vote at once, but confine it entirely to the matter of the Elves and the Lesser Races; Lycaelon graciously acceded.

It was unanimous. Ties with the Lesser Races would be severed immediately.

Lycaelon summoned another Page. He scribbled a few lines on the Gate-captain’s report and sealed it with his Council ring.

“Take this to the head of the City Guard. Tell him that the creature waiting outside the Delfier Gate is to be turned away. Tell him he is authorized to use supreme force if necessary.”

—«♦»—

CILARNEN had no idea how long he spent in the gloomy cell. When he awoke, Lord Anigrel was gone, and his head ached terribly. He felt dull and ill. This must be the way the unGifted felt all the time; he knew he had been stripped of his Magegift: the thing that made him a member of the ruling classes of Armethalieh, City of Mages.

Eventually, hunger and thirst drove him to investigate the basket the stone golems had left. It proved to contain several loaves of penance-bread, a large jug of water, a small tin cup, and a larger tin utensil whose purpose was not hard to guess. Though the water was flat and warm, thirst made it bearable, but he hadn’t the stomach to try the bread just yet. He still felt too sick.

Drinking cleared his head—enough to worry about his friends and his family. What would happen to his mother and his sisters now that Lord Volpiril was dead? Would his mother’s family take her back, with such an awful disgrace hovering over her? He vaguely recalled that his elder sister Dialee had been betrothed, but could not remember to whom—would her suitor call off the match? Undoubtedly. And poor Eshavi would certainly never find a husband now at all. Unless some common-born fellow deigned to take either of them. He groaned at the thought.

But such matters could not occupy him for long when he had his friends to worry about. Were they all to be Banished as well? Or was there some more terrible fate in store for them? He shuddered. What could be more terrible than being stripped of one’s Gift and being turned out of the Golden City to face an unknown future?

Or—were the rest of them to be spared, and only he to be Banished?

He would never know. Unless, somehow, by the mercy of the Light—and Cilarnen wasn’t entirely sure it would be a mercy—he managed to evade the Outlaw Hunt, and they did too, and he met them upon the road.

Cilarnen’s conception of the world outside the City walls was hazy at best, and his mind rebelled from contemplating it now. He would know soon enough, whether he wanted to or not.

Eventually hunger drove him to try the penance-bread. It was like no food he had ever encountered in his life. The bread was coarse and unpalatable, very strong-tasting, and required a great deal of chewing before he could