To Light A Candle

wished suddenly that he’d brought treats for them, and stooped carefully to tear up handfuls of the grass at his feet, feeding each of them in turn. They took the morsels neatly and delicately.

Behind him, Jermayan cleared his throat meaningfully.

Oh.

It was time to stop entertaining himself and get to work. He summoned up his spell-sight, wondering what— if anything—it would show him.

As always, the world seemed oddly simplified, though Kellen could never quite put his finger on just how that was. It was almost as if everything that didn’t immediately matter disappeared, though everything he needed to see was there. He could feel Jermayan and Valdien behind him. He could tell that Jermayan was leaning against Valdien’s shoulder, and knew he would sense instantly if either of them changed position. He ought to find “seeing” things he couldn’t see unsettling, but somehow he didn’t. He guessed it was all part of settling in to being a Knight-Mage.

Now he focused his attention on the Elven mares.

The spell-sight overlay was subtle, but present. He could see the ghosts of old injuries and the faint symbolic presences of things he had no words for. Help me to make the right choice, Kellen said, without quite knowing who—or what— he asked.

At last, as he waited, a sense of lightness filled him. He reached out and placed his hand against one of the mares’ shoulders, blinking the spell-sight away. “This one,” he said, looking to see that he’d chosen the tawny red mare.

“A good choice,” Jermayan said. “Deyishene will serve you well. She has trained many a knight. Come, then.”

“Come, my lady,” Kellen said, a little self-consciously. Deyishene shook herself like a wet dog—a very large wet dog—and took a step forward.

“Come,” Jermayan said. “She will follow.”

—«♦«♦»♦»—

JERMAYAN led Kellen down to one of the stable blocks that flanked the riding ring. There, Kellen brushed and toweled his new charge dry—or at least merely damp—before going to help Jermayan select saddle and armor from the tack room.

“It will not be in your colors, of course,” Jermayan said, “and the colors here are… unfortunate.” He regarded a large shelf of neatly folded caparisons, the knee-length saddlecloths worn over or under equestrian armor, and the fancy rein decorations that matched.

Kellen saw red, gold, and two shades of green. The pale green wasn’t appropriate for him—he wasn’t that much of a beginner. He wasn’t sure whether Master Belesharon thought he ought to be wearing the gold or not, and he didn’t think it went that badly with the shade of green of his cloak and surcoat.

“But perhaps Master Belesharon will be inclined to be merciful,” Jermayan continued, real concern in his voice.

“Honestly, Jermayan, whatever you think is best,” Kellen said. “Maybe I could just skip this part.”

“It is necessary,” Jermayan said, in tones that brooked no argument. He sighed, and dug through the stacks of folded barding, obviously searching for something. “Ah. I had thought these might be here.” He pulled out a heavy bundle of white fabric, and handed it to Kellen. “Unexceptionable. A bit daring, but no one can quarrel with such a choice.”

Whatever that’s supposed to mean, Kellen thought. Oh, well. It must be just another example of the Elven passion for detail and protocol.

Fortunately Jermayan was with him, for Kellen would have had no idea of how to choose the right sizes of everything from shanfron and peytrel to flanchard and crinet, though he had saddled and unsaddled Valdien enough times to know exactly what items made up an Elven destrier’s armor, and how to put them on. Though the pieces were surprisingly light, they were bulky, and it took both of them—and two trips—to carry them back to Deyishene’s stall.

“Now let us see if you remember your lessons, and afterward, a turn about the ring,” Jermayan said implacably.

While Kellen worked his way—slowly—through saddling and armoring Deyishene, Jermayan made a far brisker job of preparing Valdien, rubbing the stallion dry, saddling him, and armoring him, long before Kellen had the straps and buckles adjusted and the complicated pieces of armor locked into place. He knew better than to hurry, though. Haste now could lead to a variety of disasters later, from saddle sores, to armor that fell to pieces, to a loose saddle-girth which could dump its rider from his mount’s back—which could be humiliating or downright