To Light A Candle

“Wash first,” Corela told him firmly. “And eat.”

—«♦»—

IT was good advice, so Cilarnen took it. He didn’t think that the horses would appreciate it if he came to them reeking of blood.

Once he’d finished his morning stable chores, it occurred to him that nobody probably had time for any of Stonehearth’s livestock that morning.

Well, he did. He didn’t need to sleep yet. He wasn’t sure he could. There was something inside him, something that made his chest and throat feel tight whenever he thought of Grander, something that wanted to burst out. It was worse than when he’d been caught and told he was going to be Banished.

Much worse.

He didn’t want to be alone with it.

The sheep and goat-pens were outside the walls, guarded by shaggy herding-dogs in their kennels. The great beasts came rushing forward when Cilarnen appeared, barking savagely when they caught his scent, then sniffing and nudging at him hopefully.

No one has been here to feed them either, Cilarnen realized. The sheep and goats could eat hay, but that wouldn’t do for the dogs. He’d have to go find something to feed them after he unpenned the animals.

The barking had roused the pens’ inhabitants, and a great bleating and baaing issued from within. Cilarnen opened each door in turn, jumping out of the way quickly to avoid being trampled by the outrush of hairy and woolly bodies.

The herd dogs, abandoning immediate hope of food, rounded up their charges and began herding them down to the river for their long-delayed morning drink. While they were gone, Cilarnen went to the storage barn, unbolted the door, and began dragging shocks of fodder out, dumping them in the snow. Centaurs might be able to carry them, but he wasn’t nearly as strong as a Centaur.

He had no idea how many were enough, or what to do with them, but at least the animals wouldn’t starve.

“That’s enough.”

Cilarnen looked up, to find Kardus standing in the snow behind him. The Centaur Wildmage had a large canvas bag slung over one shoulder, and a knife in one hand.

“Bolt the door, or the goats will get in among the fodder and gorge until they burst.” As he spoke, he began cutting the braided lengths of straw that bound the fodder-shocks together. “Then help me spread this over the snow, or the strong will keep the weak away from the food.”

By the time the dogs brought the herds back, Kardus and Cilarnen had covered the snow with hay, and both sheep and goats settled to browsing contentedly. Kardus reached into his bag and pulled out several large brown loaves. He tossed one to each of the waiting dogs, who were standing by expectantly. As they gulped them down, Cilarnen saw that the loaves were meat and bread mixed together, obviously what the dogs were used to receiving.

“I told Toria I would see to the flocks today,” Kardus said. “But I see you got here first.”

“I’d done the stables,” Cilarnen said. “I didn’t think anyone would have thought about the other animals yet.”

“They have thought,” Kardus said. “But there are many dead and injured, and not enough hands to do the work.”

My friends are dead, Cilarnen thought bleakly, feeling his throat tighten and eyes sting again. And everyone in Stonehearth had lost friends. It was a small village. Everyone knew everyone else.

“Kardus—why did the… Demon… come here? Do you know? Tell me!” But the Centaur Wildmage only shook his head wordlessly.

—«♦»—

“CAN anyone tell me,” Savilla asked with spurious mildness, “just why there was an open attack on that grubby Centaur village?”

Her highest-ranking nobles were gathered before her in the formal Audience Chamber, where she had summoned them as soon as the word of Yethlenga’s attack upon Stonehearth had reached the World Without Sun. She did not know why he had attacked—and she could not ask him before she killed him, for the Lightborn had