Mercedes Lackey - To Light A Candle

Though Kellen knew that half Cilarnen’s questions were an honest attempt to gain the information that would allow him to fit in to his strange new world and the other half an attempt to distract himself from his worries, they still nibbled at Kellen’s composure like a swarm of hungry mice at a bread loaf. Leaf and Star—he didn’t know the answers to half of them—and the ones he could answer, he didn’t know how to, not in any way Cilarnen could understand.

Any mention of the Wild Magic seemed to simply baffle Cilarnen, like attempting to explain color to a blind man. True, it had confused Kellen when he began to study it, but even then he’d realized that there was a pattern within it— somewhere.

Cilarnen seemed wholly unable to grasp that pattern—or even the idea that there could be a pattern.

He’s not a Wildmage. He’ll NEVER be a Wildmage .

They reached the horse-lines. And Cilarnen—blessedly—shut up, staring at the waiting ranks of destriers.

“I thought we’d go for a ride this morning. I’ll have to go out and catch Firareth first, though. What were you riding when you came?”

Cilarnen seemed to wilt slightly. “A mule. A very nice mule of course—his name is Oakleaf, but—Kellen, the Elves keep their promises, don’t they?”

“Did someone promise you something?” Kellen said carefully.

“When I came from Stonehearth, Lady Sarlin gave me a horse. Her name was Tinsin. She was a plowhorse—the Centaurs didn’t have any riding horses, of course. She wasn’t very fast. Nemermet—our guide—didn’t like that. He took her away from me. He said she’d be well treated, just as if she were Elven stock, and returned to Stonehearth in the spring, but…”

“Then she will,” Kellen said firmly. “The Elves honor their allies, and if you told Nemermet that Tinsin was your responsibility, he’d take that very seriously.”

“Oh,” Cilarnen said. He seemed to relax a little. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Be sure,” Kellen said seriously. “Don’t ever call an Elf a liar. Don’t even think it.” Or you might find yourself in a Challenge Circle, and I’m not even sure you can lift a sword . “Remember about them making everything into an art? Their honor is an art, too, and they spend a lifetime perfecting it.”

They walked out into the herd. Kellen stopped to pat familiar friends, looking for Firareth. He should be with the nearer herd, those who still had riders.

“They’re all so beautiful,” Cilarnen said longingly.

“Elven-bred, from the Fields of Vardirvoshan, and trained for war,” Kellen said. “We should be able to find you something faster than a mule—you’ll need it, to keep up with the army when it’s on the move. How well do you ride?”

“Better than you do,” Cilarnen said smugly.

That’s the last straw . Kellen turned to the nearest horse handler, who was moving through the herd. “I See you, Anamitar. It would please me greatly to know if Anganil has yet found a rider.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

THE YOUNG BLACK stallion was yet unpartnered. By the time Kellen had brought in Firareth and saddled him, Anganil had been brought to the horse-lines, and his gear had been brought from storage. He wore no armor, and his saddle-trappings were now all in white.

By the time Anganil was saddled, they’d collected something of an audience. Kellen supposed it wasn’t very nice of him to set Cilarnen up for a quick flight into a snowbank—but Leaf and Star, the boy needed to stop making so many assumptions!

“He’s war-trained,” Kellen warned, swinging into his saddle. “He’s young, and he hasn’t been ridden for a while. If he likes you, and you can stay in the saddle, he’s yours to ride for as long as you’re with the army.”

He felt safe in making that much of a promise, especially since Cilarnen’s possession of Anganil wasn’t likely to extend much beyond the next five minutes. After that, they could find him something he could handle.

He tried not to think of Ciltesse, who had chosen Anganil, hoping Kellen would ride him. Ciltesse would have enjoyed this moment very much. Or been appalled by it.

But apparently Cilarnen did know something about horses. He took the time to make friends with the stallion, stroking his nose and speaking gently to him. Kellen offered him a piece of honey-cake, and Cilarnen fed Anganil the sticky-sweet morsel.

So far, so good.

When Anganil had accepted his presence, Cilarnen quickly mounted. The stallion held perfectly still, merely lifting one hind hoof and setting it down again.

Once they’d ridden away from camp, however, it was a different story. It was just as well that Cilarnen was—as he’d claimed—a good horseman—as Anganil was fresh, playful… and very, very bored.

After the third time the stallion plunged sidewise in feigned panic at a swirl of wind-drifted snow, Kellen said, “You’d better give him a run before he really starts playing up. Come on.”

He spurred Firareth into a canter, then a gallop. Anganil was only too happy to follow.

Kellen figured they’d probably have time for a good gallop up to the end of the camp and back. In the distance, he could see others taking advantage of the rest and the comparatively good weather; there were teams of draft mules out, clearing a level practice field for the cavalry units to drill on later, and groups of Elves were even building the elaborate and mysterious snow-sculptures he’d seen back in Sentarshadeen after the first heavy snowfall.

Anganil overtook Firareth, and Kellen let him. Cilarnen still seemed to be in control, but Kellen could tell he was having to work for it.

Then he saw Shalkan.

Shalkan was pacing them, several hundred yards farther out. The white unicorn was a ghost against the snow, running effortlessly along the top of it. Kellen waved, and Shalkan tossed his head in response.

Then, suddenly, Cilarnen saw Shalkan as well.

He stared, transfixed, at what was obviously the first unicorn he’d ever seen. For one moment, no part of his attention was on Anganil.

And Anganil knew it.

The stallion put on a burst of speed, then leaped into the air. He came down on his forehand, ducked his head, and kicked out hard with his hind legs.

Cilarnen went flying over his head into the snow. Anganil sprang sideways and began to run in good earnest.

—«♦»—

OH, no —

Kellen had wanted Cilarnen to take a fall—but not that hard a fall!

He checked Firareth and vaulted from the saddle, running to where Cilarnen lay sprawled in the snow. “Are you all right?” he demanded. If he’s dead — or hurt — Idalia will kill me. And I’ll deserve it . Stupid, stupid, stupid —

But Cilarnen seemed only to be breathless—and indignant.

“He threw me off!” Cilarnen said disgustedly, allowing Kellen to help him to his feet. He looked around, searching for Anganil. “And now he’s bolted.”

“He knew you weren’t paying attention. Those are some of the war moves I told you about.” Kellen helped him up, almost giddy with relief. “Don’t worry. Shalkan will bring him back.”

“That—was a unicorn,” Cilarnen said, once he’d mounted up behind Kellen, and they were riding off in the direction Anganil had gone.

“Yes it was.” Kellen smiled a little at the wonder in Cilarnen’s voice. “His name is Shalkan, and he’s my friend. There’s a dragon here, too. His name is Ancaladar. You’ll probably see him later.”

Shalkan had herded Anganil in a wide circle, and now the destrier was running toward them, the unicorn at his heels. Kellen moved Firareth to block the young destrier’s path. Anganil, sensing that the game was up, stopped and stood quietly, switching his tail innocently.