“Home,” he said to the destrier, pointing back at the camp and giving him an encouraging slap on the rump. “You, too,” he said to Anganil.
Both animals trotted off toward the camp.
“They’ll go where they’re used to being fed,” Kellen said, noting Cilarnen’s look of disbelief. “The handlers will bring them in and take care of them. There’s no magic involved. It’s one of the commands they know.”
“Like ‘dump your rider in the snow’?” Cilarnen suggested, with a faint nervous smile.
“If we’re both still alive tomorrow, maybe there will be time to start training you to make use of what Anganil knows,” Kellen said absently. “I doubt you’ll ever be a knight, but you have the makings of a fine rider.”
They walked toward the pavilion, each occupied by his own sober thoughts.
The other Wildmages were already gathered here, though not all were yet inside. The Mountainfolk undoubtedly thought this was a fine calm day—even warm—and the Lostlanders were used to even harsher conditions. Some were gathered around a brazier, brewing their thick black tea and talking quietly. Others paced back and forth, their heavy furs dark against the snow.
It was the calm before battle.
Ancaladar was coiled around the pavilion, as immobile as if he’d decided to become a part of it. The dragon raised his head as they approached, his large golden eyes fixed on Cilarnen.
“This should be interesting,” Ancaladar commented, lowering his head again.
They went inside. Idalia was standing near the mirror, talking intently to Jermayan. She looked up as Kellen entered.
And saw Cilarnen.
Last night Kellen had told Cilarnen he was saving all his arguments for Idalia. Now he wondered if arguing was going to be good enough. Idalia walked over to them.
“Good morning, Kellen. Have you decided to murder Cilarnen after all, or is there another reason he’s here?” Her violet eyes flashed dangerously. She knew— they all knew—of Cilarnen’s particular sensitivity to the Wild Magic. This was the last place he should be.
“He believes he has a good reason to stand in the Circle with us. I’ve heard his reasons, and I agree,” Kellen said, matching bluntness with bluntness. “I’ve told him it may kill him. He has still chosen to come.”
“Cilarnen—” Idalia began.
“Idalia,” Kellen said gently. “No one is asking your permission.”
Idalia stared at Kellen as if seeing him for the very first time.
Jermayan appeared at Idalia’s side. Even in plain sight, even in a crowd of people, the Elven Mage could appear and disappear with a silent grace that owed nothing to magic.
“To know these reasons would make good hearing,” Jermayan said quietly, putting a hand on Idalia’s arm.
“It’s a question,” Kellen said to Cilarnen, when Cilarnen said nothing. Keyed-up as he was, Cilarnen might not have understood, and Jermayan was being very polite. “Answer it or not as you choose.”
“I think…” Cilarnen faltered to a stop and started again. “The
There was another silence. Idalia looked from Cilarnen to Kellen, and back again. At last she nodded—not permitting, but accepting. “As Kellen says, it’s your choice.”
“Stand where you like,” Kellen said to Cilarnen. “I don’t think it will matter.”
“I’ll want you in the center with me, Kellen,” Idalia said. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
She took his arm and walked with him over to the space before Kindolhinadetil’s mirror. Her stave leaned against it. There was now an iron brazier set before it—one of the largest the Elves possessed—filled with pieces of
