To Light A Candle

beyond his personal power to draw on to fuel his spells.

“Yes,” Cilarnen said, smiling bitterly for a moment. “For what good it does me. I was nearly ready to test for Journeyman when I was Banished—but here, without tools, without spellbooks, what good am I? Unless, of course, you need someone to take care of horses. I can light fires and boil water. But just touching those cursed books you Wildmages are so proud of makes me feel sick. And there’s something missing when I try to cast a spell. But I don’t know what it is.”

I do, Kellen thought. And bless Leaf and Star that Anigrel was so willing to parade his superior knowledge before me that day. I can explain to you how the High Magick REALLY works, and why your spells don’t.

But whether that was something he should do would require more thought. And he wasn’t sure that even if he did explain, it would help. Cilarnen would still need a power source—quite a lot of them, in fact—and they would have to donate their power freely and willingly.

“I’m glad that you told me all this,” Kellen said, “and I really am sorry about your father—not because I liked him, or any of the High Mages, but because I think he was unjustly killed. And I know that you and your friends were unjustly punished. It should have been the first thought of every High Mage on the Council to take care of the City, not to spend their time in wrangling over who was to blame. But this isn’t why you came, is it?”

“No,” Cilarnen said. “I came because of what the De—Thing told me at Stonehearth.” He closed his eyes, obviously concentrating, and when he spoke again, eyes still closed, Kellen sensed he was reciting something he had carefully committed to memory.

“‘So, Arch-Mage’s son Kellen, what a surprise to see you here. Have you tired of the Children of Leaf and Star and think to make your way back to the Golden City? You have nothing to return to now. Your father claims another as his son. He has given him the seat on the High Council that was to have been yours. And daily our foothold in the City grows stronger…’”

Kellen rocked back on his heels, the words striking him like separate blows.

The Demons were in Armethalieh.

Or… wait. He was fairly sure the Demons couldn’t enter Armethalieh, any more than they could enter the Elven Lands. If he could trust a single word Lycaelon had said to him that night in his cell, the High Mages did remember the Demons, and were still terrified of them. So they’d have spells to keep them out of the City.

But… a foothold. That was bad enough.

It would have to be a foothold of a different sort than they had here in the Elven Lands with the Shadowed Elves. Something that could pass the City-wards and flourish unnoticed.

But what?

“Well?” Cilarnen demanded. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Yes,” Kellen said. “I’m going to have another cup of tea. And I’m going to think.”

“Think!” Cilarnen cried. “What good is thinking going to do? You’ve got to stop them!”

“Really?” Kellen replied, his tone dry. “One would be interested, of course, to hear how this was to be accomplished at all, much less this instant. I can’t go back to Armethalieh and neither can you. And even if we could fight our way in, do you think the High Council would listen to us? Would the Arch-Mage listen to me?” And Lycaelon rules the Council now. He must, now that Volpiril’s dead. I have to talk to Idalia about this. She kept watch on the High Council for years. She’ll have a better idea of how the power would have shifted with Volpiril gone. And… Lycaelon has adopted someone, and given him Volpiril’s Council seat. Who?

“So you’re going to leave them to die,” Cilarnen said bitterly. “I knew you would.” He started to get to his feet.

“Sit down,” Kellen said firmly. “Drink your tea. And think, Cilarnen. By Leaf and Star, you were the best student at the Mage-College—you must have some brain in that pretty head of yours. I wouldn’t give my worst enemy over to Them—I’m certainly not giving Them a whole city of innocent people to play with. Their sorcery is fueled by torture and death—and the more powerful the Gift in their victim, the more power They gain from destroying him. If they take Armethalieh… if they can take Armethalieh…”

Then They win. They’ll be unstoppable.

“It’s cold,” Cilarnen muttered sulkily, sitting back down.

Kellen lifted the pot. Cilarnen held out his cup. Kellen refilled it. Cilarnen sipped. “Now it’s bitter,” he said, a faint whining note in his voice.