bread and cheese, and filled their tankards with cider and mead.
After trying the mead, Cilarnen stuck strictly to the cider—he’d had a thorough education in alcohol by now, and the mead in those barrels packed a kick like a Centaur’s hoof. Maybe if things were different, he might welcome the release that came with surrendering to the light-headedness that a bit of intoxication would bring. But here, now—no. The last time he had relaxed, a Demon had come. When it happened again, he would not be unready.
Wrapped in his blankets, belly full, some of Cilarnen’s sense of unreality faded, leaving him time to worry about what was to come.
What was he going to say to Kellen Outlaw when they found him? Cilarnen wasn’t quite sure. The Demon’s words were etched in his memory—he’d never forget those—but their meaning seemed constantly slippery. There was only one thing he could be really sure of.
He had his Gift.
And he shouldn’t.
—«♦»—
CILARNEN woke—as had become his habit long before they’d set out on this journey—just before dawn. In Stonehearth, Grander’s house would already be awake and stirring; he would wash and dress, grab a quick breakfast of porridge and hot watered ale with the other apprentices, and go off to his morning chores at the stable. On the trail, his first duty in the morning was to see to the fire.
He’d learned to sleep with his boots inside his bedroll. He pulled them on without letting too much cold air in and got to his feet, his blankets wrapped tightly around him. There was a moment of shocking cold as he dropped the blankets and pulled his hooded cloak around himself, then Cilarnen was ready to face the day. The Centaurs were just beginning to stir.
Last night Kardus had showed him how the Elven stove worked. The Elves had left a good supply of the charcoal disks they used for fuel. Cilarnen opened one of the bottom gates of the stove. Good. There was still a good bed of embers left. He picked up several of the disks and set them on the embers, then went to see to Tinsin. There was a water trough nearby, but they’d emptied it last night. He supposed he could fill it with snow and melt the snow to give her and Wirance’s mule a morning drink.
But when he reached the place where the animals were tied, there was an Elf there.
Automatically, Cilarnen glanced down at the snow. There were no footprints.
“This is not a riding animal,” the Elf observed, regarding Cilarnen unblinkingly. He looked enough like Hyandur to be his twin. Did all Elves look alike?
“Centaurs don’t have saddle horses. I had to ride something,” Cilarnen said. “Are you—”
But the Elf had vanished again.
Cilarnen shrugged, and went to find a bucket and his wand.
The same spell that warmed his bathwater at home turned a trough full of heaped snow into a trough full of water without much trouble. He led Tinsin and the mule down to it for their morning drink.
He brought them back up and secured them again. Out of habit, the Centaurs made quick work of breakfast, and by the time it was done, Cilarnen could see a cart coming toward them through the trees.
It was on runners because of the snow, and was drawn by four of the most beautiful horses Cilarnen had ever seen. Draft horses, yes; there was no doubt they had been bred to pull heavy loads; but beyond that, they resembled his Tinsin as little as a swan resembles a duck.
Their heavy winter coats shimmered like the finest velvet, and all four of them were so closely matched in color that there was not a hair’s worth of difference among them. They were a pale bronze color, and their manes and tails were the color of heavy cream. Their harness was only a few shades darker than their coats, and the cart they pulled of wood a few shades darker still; it was as if the whole was some fabulous carving in amber: a rich man’s toy.
Riding beside it were two Elves on horseback.
Cilarnen had thought that Roiry was the most beautiful animal he’d ever seen, but the two stallions utterly eclipsed the Elven mare. Both were greys—one nearly white, the other a dark dapple grey—and they moved with an elegance and grace that made him think of dancing.
The cart pulled to a stop. One of the Elves dismounted and walked forward. He approached Comild.
“The others precede you by many days. The army marches to Ysterialpoerin. It is a great distance. Here are supplies for the journey, and a guide. I make known to you Nemermet, who will accompany you.”
