The next time they stopped at one of the trail huts for supplies, there was a mule waiting there.
The mule was obviously of Elven breeding; it looked very much like the one Hyandur had loaned him. It was a russet color, with a cream mane, belly, and tail-tuft, and quite elegant… for a mule.
“In the morning, you will take Oakleaf,” Nemermet said as he unsaddled his mount, speaking directly to Cilarnen for the first time. “Leave Tinsin here.”
“No,” Cilarnen said, surprising himself. “I’m responsible for her. I won’t abandon her. What will she eat?” A hundred dangers ran through his mind. “What if there are wolves? Or bears? Or—something?” he ended, lamely.
Nemermet regarded him expressionlessly. “She will be cared for.” His task finished, he began to turn away.
“That isn’t good enough,” Cilarnen said. All his anger and frustration at days of following orders he didn’t quite understand came boiling to the surface, but he did his best to keep his voice low and even. “Sarlin of Stonehearth gave Tinsin to me. I promised I’d bring her back safe. Everyone says we’re not supposed to ask you questions. If you don’t want me to ask you questions, then give me answers.”
For a moment, he didn’t think Nemermet would answer him. Then the Elf seemed to reach a decision.
“Tomorrow, when we are gone, a rider will come. He will take her to winter with our own stock, cared for as if she were our own. In the spring, we will see her to Stonehearth if you cannot.”
Nemermet turned away, indicating the conversation was finished.
“I will say this for you, boy—you’ve got more courage than sense,” Comild said, coming up to him.
Cilarnen leaned his head against Tinsin’s shoulder. “I just don’t like being pushed around.”
Had he really hated life in Armethalieh that much?
No. He’d loved living there, and the thought that he could never go back hurt so much that he didn’t dare think about it.
But…
Mageborn keeping secrets—saying things were “for the good of the City” when that was a lie—plotting against the City and moving other Mageborn around as if they had no more worth than pieces on a
And he wasn’t sure anyone could stop them. Not if what the Demon had told him at Stonehearth was true.
He sighed, and began the awkward business of removing Tinsin’s saddle and bridle.
—«♦»—
ONCE Cilarnen had been remounted, their journey went faster, and in another sennight they began to see faint signs that another—much larger—party was traveling in the same direction. Now Nemermet’s insistent haste began to make sense: Luermai had said that “others preceded them,” and Nemermet was obviously trying to catch up with the other party.
By now they were well into the mountains—Kardus said that beyond this lay high plains, but further than that into the Elven Lands he had not been. Though Cilarnen missed Tinsin—and despite Kardus’s assurances, wasn’t entirely certain he trusted Nemermet’s word that she’d be cared for and returned to Stonehearth—he had to admit that Oakleaf was much easier and more comfortable to ride. And the Elven-bred mule was certainly better-suited to the terrain they had to cross.
In the middle of their third sennight of travel, they finally caught sight of the other Centaurs. They’d crossed the last of the mountain passes and were starting down into the valley.
“Look!” Comild said, pointing.
Cilarnen peered through the falling snow. Dimly, he could make out a blot of darkness in the distance, moving slowly over the plain below.
