“There are your fellows,” Nemermet said. “You will join them tomorrow, if we hurry now.”
—«♦»—
THEY lost sight of the Centaur army when they reached the plain—the rest of the levies would have crossed the Elven border together, Cilarnen realized;
Comild’s people had been delayed by the Demon attack upon Stonehearth—but they were only half a day behind them now, and the wide deep track the others had made with their passage made travel for Comild’s party both easy and fast. They pressed on that day until well beyond their usual stopping time, until Wirance finally called a halt.
“It’s as dark as the inside of a goat’s stomach now,” the Wildmage said bluntly, “and I’m not minded to spend tomorrow healing the fool that lames himself on the ice tonight. We’ll stop here. You may be able to see in the dark, my Elven friend, but we can’t and neither can these poor mules.”
Reluctantly, the others agreed.
There were no sheltering trees on the High Plains, but by now all of them carried pieces of heavy canvas designed to be joined together by collapsible hollow tubes—a gift of the Elves, left for them at one of the trail huts many days ago. Each piece alone could serve as a windbreak. When they were all joined together, they formed a shelter large enough for humans and Centaurs both to take refuge together from the worst of the storms.
Assembling it was a tricky matter, however, and something they’d never done in the dark.
Cilarnen hadn’t worked any High Magick since Nemermet had joined them—even so simple a thing as lighting a fire. He wasn’t sure why; he didn’t
He concentrated. The ball of blue light grew between his hands. When it was as large as he wanted, he spread his hands. It hovered above them, a small full moon.
“You’re full of tricks,” Wirance said approvingly. He swung down from his mule’s back and began to unpack his piece of the shelter. Cilarnen dismounted as well. The sooner the shelter was assembled, the sooner they could begin to get warm. He thought longingly of tea—though the hot water Nemermet called “tea” was a poor substitute for the real thing.
“You did not name yourself a Wildmage when you stood upon the Border.” If Nemermet’s voice held any expression at all, Cilarnen would have said it sounded faintly accusing. But of course it didn’t. He wasn’t entirely sure Elves
“I’m not a Wildmage,” Cilarnen said, struggling to match Nemermet’s even tone. “I’m a Mage of Armethalieh.”
“Armethalieh!” Now there
Surprise… and contempt.
Kardus stepped forward, placing his body between Cilarnen and Nemermet.
“He was Banished, as was Kellen Wildmage,” the Centaur said, and there was warning in his tone. “He has lived for a season among the Centaurs of Stonehearth, and fought valiantly in their defense. And it is my Task to bring him to Kellen Wildmage.”
“Then do so,” Nemermet said briefly, his tone gone flat, and turned to help the others erect the shelter.
In the glow of the Mage-light, Cilarnen stared at Kardus in shock.
Hyandur had known he was from Armethalieh, and had helped him escape. The Centaurs had known where he came from—and they’d pitied him for it, he now realized ruefully.
He hadn’t expected
“Armethalieh, too, had a treaty with the Elves,” Kardus said quietly. “But they have not honored it.”
“To
“Yes. But they would not even allow Andoreniel’s envoy to warn them.”
A dozen disparate pieces of information came together in his mind, all in a rush. “Hyandur. He was the one who came to warn the High Council, wasn’t he? They didn’t let him in.” He paused, and added, wonderingly, “He
