“THESE are the Books of the Wild Magic,” Kardus said, placing three worn volumes into Cilarnen’s hands one night as they gathered around the fire. “All the wisdom of the Herdsman’s path is written in their pages. Perhaps you will learn what you seek herein.”
Cilarnen accepted them gingerly. There was a certain illicit thrill in handling them.
Cilarnen opened the first of the three books. The leather was stiff and slippery in his hands, the covers oddly hard to open.
“There’s nothing here,” he said in surprise.
“Say you so?” Kardus said, frowning. “Look deeper.”
“At what?” Cilarnen demanded irritably. “There’s nothing to see. The pages are blank.” He handed the three books quickly back to Kardus, who looked down at the first book thoughtfully, shaking his head in puzzlement.
“Try mine.” Wirance, who had been standing a few feet away, stepped closer, holding out a single slim volume.
Cilarnen took it reluctantly. It was one thing to tell himself he was willing to investigate other kinds of magic. It was another to have his nose rubbed in the reality of it. Kardus could obviously read what was written on the pages of his three Books perfectly well, but to Cilarnen, those same pages were blank.
Unlike the Books of the Centaur Wildmage, Wirance’s Book seemed to burn in Cilarnen’s hands, writhing under his fingers as if it wished to escape. It gave him the same feeling he had around Wirance, only magnified a hundredfold.
He gritted his teeth and pried the book open.
It was blank.
He let the covers snap shut with a sigh of relief. When he relaxed his grip, it was as if the book flew from his hands and back to Wirance’s.
“Nothing,” Cilarnen said. “It was blank, too.”
“Well, we know that whatever you are, you’re not a Wildmage—nor meant to be one, it seems,” Wirance said thoughtfully.
“I am a Mage of Armethalieh,” Cilarnen said. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. Half-trained— maybe never better-trained than this—and lacking most of his tools, but still a Mage of the Golden City.
And he would save her if he could.
“A great pity we do not know more about what that means,” Wirance said, slipping his Book back into his pack. “Perhaps the Elves will be able to help.”
Cilarnen nodded politely, but privately he doubted it. Hyandur had been kind, but as much as he stretched his imagination, Cilarnen could not imagine the Elf tutoring him in magick.
—«♦»—
“WE should be near the border of the Elven Lands soon,” Comild said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind wailing through the trees—as Wirance had predicted before they’d left Stonehearth, the fair weather had only held for so long, and for the last several days they had been traveling through increasingly heavy snow. More and more, Cilarnen found himself longing for the comforts of the City—it never snowed in winter there, and there was always hot water whenever you wanted it. Hot water, hot food, hot baths…
“Declare yourselves.”
The voice came out of nowhere. A figure had appeared in their path where none had been before—hooded and cloaked in white furs that made him almost impossible to see through the snow. He held a short bow pointed at them, an arrow nocked and ready.
“Wirance, Wildmage of the High Hills, brings Comild of the Centaurkin and his warriors to answer Andoreniel’s call,” Wirance answered.
“Yet do I see one among you who is neither Centaur nor Wildmage,” the Elf observed, his weapon unwavering.
Cilarnen had been riding at the front, with Kardus, Comild, and Wirance. Now he wished he’d stayed toward the back. Maybe they just wouldn’t have noticed him then—though that was unlikely. On Tinsin’s back, he towered over the rest of the troop.
