“I shall pass the word at once that we are to leave. We will come as swiftly as we may. Pray to the Good Goddess that we survive the journey.”
“I shall,” Atroist said. “And I will come to you myself and render what aid I can.”
“Let it be so,” Drothi said. “Now leave me. I have much work to do before I sleep.”
—«♦»—
THERE was a moment of disorientation, and suddenly Kellen was back in the ice-pavilion, blinking in confusion at his fellow Wildmages over the now-cold fire. He breathed in deeply and coughed, suddenly aware of the lingering spicy scent of woodsmoke.
“This does not sound good,” Idalia said mildly.
“Coldwarg, and icedrake, and shadewalkers, and serpentmarae, to judge by Drothi’s description,” Jermayan said grimly. “And the Deathwings that we know to be the creatures of the Shadowed Elves as well. The Deathwings we had never seen before, and all but the coldwarg we had thought to be gone—destroyed in the Great War.”
“I guess they’re back,” Kellen said. He yawned—he couldn’t help it; now that the spell had run its course, the energy he’d lent to its working left him feeling drained.
“I must go,” Atroist said, getting to his feet and beginning to pack the keystones and the half-burned ghostwood into the packs again. “I will leave at first light. I cannot leave my people to face such a journey alone, when I might be able to protect them on their way.”
“Of course you can’t,” Idalia agreed. “Return as soon as you can, and make your journey safely.”
“May the Good Goddess will it so,” Atroist said.
“What about this?” Kellen said to Jermayan, indicating the ice-pavilion.
“Oh,” Jermayan said, a faint overelaborate note of casualness in his voice, “I thought I’d just leave it. It won’t melt, you know.”
“Not until spring,” Ancaladar agreed, from his position in the doorway.
“And I might have a use for it later,” Jermayan continued, far too innocently.
“Whatever,” Kellen muttered. He wondered if there was any chance of getting a bowl of hot soup back at the Unicorn Knights’ camp, or whether he’d have to make do with cold trail-rations. At least there’d be tea. In an Elven camp, there was always tea.
“Don’t tease him, Jermayan,” Idalia said sharply.
“What?” Kellen said blankly.
“I do apologize, Kellen,” Jermayan said, sounding truly contrite.
Kellen was puzzled. Something had just happened, and he had no idea what it was, but Idalia was mad, and Jermayan was upset.
“Look,” he said with a sigh. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m cold. All I want is to help Atroist get his stuff back to his tent so I can go get some dinner, okay?”
Idalia smiled, and reached out to ruffle his hair. “I do love you, Kellen,” she said with a smile.
“Sure,” Kellen said. Sometimes sisters were just as baffling as Elves.
Since a good portion of the ghostwood had been burned in the Speaking Spell, the remains and the keystones fitted neatly into two backpacks. Kellen took one, and Atroist took the other, and they headed back in the direction of the Gathering Plain. It was only after they’d passed the edge of the Flower Forest that Kellen realized that Idalia and Jermayan had stayed behind. He shrugged. Probably quoting poetry at each other. He hoped Jermayan had brought more teacups.
“The Firstlings are… not as I imagined they would be,” Atroist said after a while.
“The Elves? I guess they take some getting used to,” Kellen agreed. “I didn’t even know they existed—not really—before I left the City, so I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Good thing too.” Not that he’d had a lot of choice about coming to Sentarshadeen. But he’d have worried—and it would have turned out to be for no good reason.
“The Golden City of Mages—your City—is a place we only know of in legends,” Atroist said. “Someday,
