To Light A Candle

Ysterialpoerin were yet to arrive, but they were the most far-flung of the Nine Cities, and it might be another fortnight before they arrived. Andoreniel’s army should be on its way to the cavern before that, Kellen hoped.

He reached the Sentarshadeen pavilions, and saw familiar faces—but not the familiar faces he was looking for. In response to his puzzled expression, Dervasin took pity on him and observed that the Wildmage Idalia was to be found with Evanor, Vestakia, and the others among the tents of the Healers, and pointed him in the right direction.

Once more Kellen set off, discovering that he’d passed that collection of tents on his way across the field. Since the Healers weren’t knights, their tents were a reflection of their personal style rather than knightly colors. Some were… very bright indeed, their surfaces as brilliantly and randomly colored as a field of wildflowers. Others were as plain and deceptively simple as an Elvenware bowl, or—in the way of Elves—carefully painted to look like something they were not. The pavilion Idalia shared with Vestakia, for example, was artfully crafted to look as if it had been stitched together from carefully-tanned deer hides, right down to the tiny stitches and the small imperfections in the leather.

Only when you touched it did you realize that it was the same thick and durable silk canvas as all the others.

He wondered whose idea that had been.

He hoped Vestakia hadn’t had any problems. They’d all grown so used to her appearance in Sentarshadeen that it only now occurred to Kellen that the rest of the Nine Cities might see nothing more than her outward appearance.

He dismissed the thought with a shrug. She had many friends and protectors now.

He found Idalia’s tent without difficulty, and stopped outside to ring the bells braided into a length of cord suspended beside the entrance. Without a door to knock on, the ever-punctilious Elves had found another way for someone to announce his presence.

“Come in, Kellen,” Idalia called immediately. She must have been expecting him. Or else by now, she could just tell when it was him.

Kellen pushed through the flap—resisting the urge to duck—and looked around.

Idalia’s pavilion was larger than his—which only made sense as she might have to do healings here. Just now it contained a number of large chests, a standing brazier for warmth, and a low table with several stools that could be folded out of the way for night.

She and Vestakia were both here, and as Kellen’s eyes adjusted to the lower light level after the wintry glare outside, he saw there was a third person present as well.

The man got to his feet as Kellen entered. He was human, tall and slender, his skin burned dark with wind and sun, making his age difficult to judge, though Kellen could tell he was certainly beyond middle years. He bore an odd elusive resemblance to Vestakia, and Kellen could feel the same sense of peace and intense focus—for lack of a better term—radiating from him that Idalia possessed.

“I greet you, Wildmage,” Kellen said, bowing.

“And I you, Knight-Mage Kellen,” the Wildmage said, holding out his hand.

Quickly Kellen pulled off his gauntlet and took the man’s hand. He’d spent so long among the Elves that he’d almost forgotten there were other ways of doing things!

“This is Wildmage Atroist,” Idalia said. “He’s from the Lost Lands.”

“He knew my mother!” Vestakia said excitedly.

“Yes. Virgivet was a dear comrade of mine. I had always wondered what happened to cause her to leave Wind’s Bridge—but now that I know the whole of her story, I see that she had no choice in what she did. And she gave the world a splendid daughter—one to be proud of.”

Vestakia smiled at the praise, her eyes glistening with happy tears.

The four of them sat down around Idalia’s table once again. Kellen removed his helm, his cloak—it was quite warm in Idalia’s pavilion—and his other gauntlet, setting them in a careful bundle at his feet. Idalia set a cup before him and filled it with hot spiced cider, refilling her own cup and the cups of the other two as well.

After an exchange of pleasantries—brief by Elven standards—Atroist got down to business.

“These are hard times for us in the Lost Lands. When the Firstling King’s warning reached us, he told us nothing new. The Dark Folk have always walked openly in the hard western hills. But if they now turn their attentions to the east, we fear their hand will fall harder upon us than ever. And if that should happen, I do not think the Herdsfolk will survive.”