Mercedes Lackey - To Light A Candle

“You have the oddest ideas of fun,” Shalkan said, coming forward. “I suppose this is Cilarnen?”

“It can talk!” Cilarnen blurted.

Kellen groaned inwardly and closed his eyes. Poor Cilarnen. When Shalkan got done with him—

“Oh, my, yes,” Shalkan said in his archest tones. “Quite as well as a human. Isn’t that surprising? Of course, I’ve had a great deal more practice at talking than you seem to have. Why, I can form complete sentences and say exactly what I mean, for example.”

“But— I mean— I didn’t— That is—” Cilarnen stuttered.

Kellen ignored the byplay. He dismounted, walked over to Anganil, led the young stallion over to Firareth, and tied his reins firmly to Firareth’s saddle. He didn’t intend to spend the rest of the morning chasing Anganil through the snow if Anganil took it into his head to dash off again. Then he walked over to Shalkan.

“He doesn’t know about unicorns because nobody teaches anything about them in the City—anything important, anyway,” Kellen said, in a voice low enough that Cilarnen probably wouldn’t hear. “Which you know already. And I haven’t had time to explain everything to him yet.”

Cilarnen clambered down from Firareth’s back and came over to them. Apparently Shalkan was willing to permit his approach, for the unicorn stayed where he was.

Cilarnen was staring at Shalkan, oblivious to the falling snow. “Can I touch him?” he asked, and the note of raw longing in his voice would have melted a much harder heart than Kellen’s.

“You have to ask Shalkan,” Kellen said. “It’s not my decision.”

“May I?” Cilarnen asked, speaking directly to Shalkan now. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just— You’re so beautiful.”

“He’ll give you a honey-cake,” Kellen said cunningly, rummaging in his tunic.

“Bribery,” Shalkan scoffed, lowering his head and pawing at the snow—but apparently the combination of contrition, bribery, and flattery was sufficient. After crunching his way through the honey-cake held on Cilarnen’s outstretched hand, Shalkan allowed himself to be touched. From the look on Cilarnen’s face, he was willing to stand there forever, stroking the soft fur of Shalkan’s neck.

“We need to get back,” Kellen finally—reluctantly—said. He actually hated to tear Cilarnen away. The boy looked utterly smitten.

“Will I get to see you again?” Cilarnen said to Shalkan, sounding forlorn.

Kellen could tell that Shalkan was trying very hard not to laugh, but the unicorn’s voice, when he answered, was admirably steady.

“Oh, have Kellen bring you up to the Unicorn Camp whenever he likes. You can meet the rest of us there.” With that, Shalkan turned and trotted off.

Cilarnen turned to Kellen, his whole face a question.

“You didn’t think Shalkan was the only one, did you?” Kellen said. “Come on.”

He’d expected Cilarnen to ride back with him, but Cilarnen moved confidently toward Anganil.

“Cilarnen—”

“Yes, yes, yes. He’s thrown me once, and now he’ll see if he can do it again. I know.” He looked over his shoulder at Kellen, with determination in the line of his jaw. “But you said I could try.”

Yes, Idalia would kill him. And she’d skin him first. But how could he not give the boy a chance? He was learning.

He was learning faster than Kellen had, in some ways.

“Go ahead. Try not to get killed.”

He waited, holding Anganil’s headstall, until Cilarnen had mounted, and then handed him the reins.

The ride back went pretty much as Kellen had assumed it would—with one exception: Cilarnen was not thrown again. Once Anganil realized that this very entertaining spectacle was not to be allowed to repeat itself, he quieted down completely, and the two destriers trotted sedately side-by-side back to the horse-lines.

Cilarnen had only a little difficulty removing the unfamiliar tack, and soon they were on their way back to Kellen’s pavilion again. And there was no doubt whatsoever that although meeting Shalkan must have been the high point of Cilarnen’s life, riding the destrier had been the second highest. He was so full of wonder and ebullience that a little of it actually bubbled over and made Kellen’s spirits rise.

“I’ve never ridden a horse like that before!” Cilarnen said excitedly.

“You’ve never seen a horse like that before,” Kellen corrected him.

“Hyandur—” Cilarnen began.

“Rode a palfrey—a riding horse. Not a warhorse. Anything Elven-bred is beautiful,” Kellen conceded, “but the destriers are special. Very, very special.”

Kellen opened the flap of his tent and stepped inside, calling light into the lanterns to brighten the gloom. He noticed that Isinwen had already lit the brazier and stoked it high; it was actually warm in the tent.

And Isinwen had indeed been busy. There was a ewer and bowl waiting on the low table that had previously held the tea service, and piled on the clothes chest were Cilarnen’s new clothes.

Not only was there a full outfit, including boots, gloves, and cloak—with, Kellen did not doubt, more to come—it all matched (at least as far as Kellen could tell), and since it looked turquoise in the light of Kellen’s tent, it was probably blue.

Kellen picked up the gloves. Now here was something odd. There ought to be a pattern woven into the leggings, embroidered on the tunic, stamped into the leather of the gloves and boots. But there wasn’t.

How, he wondered, had Isinwen managed that?

“Here you go,” he said, gesturing at the clothing. “Get dressed. You might even have time to get something to eat before we’re supposed to be there, assuming your appetite’s back.”

Cilarnen had carried the tunic over to the doorway and was studying it in the light. “Blue,” he said in disgust. “Like a Student.”

“That’s purely accident,” Kellen said forcefully. “Isinwen chose the color because he thought it would be becoming to you. The clothes are warm. You’re not a Knight, so you’re not stuck with the color. You can change it. You can ask for clothing to be made for you later in any color you like.”

“To my House colors?”

“Maybe.” Kellen tried to remember what they were, and couldn’t. “Not if the Elves don’t think they’re suitable for your complexion though. And only Knights really have specific colors.”

“Is that why everything you have is green?”

Here we go again . “It matches Shalkan’s eyes. As you’ve probably noticed. Now, it would please me greatly if you would honor me by getting dressed. You’ll be warmer, and you’ll be appropriately garbed for the occasion.”

Cilarnen pulled off his gloves and began to unlace his short cloak. “I suppose, since you’re my friend, you’re telling me the truth about the clothes,” he said dubiously.

“I’m not your friend,” Kellen said with simple bluntness. Certainly not yet. Perhaps not ever .

Cilarnen stopped. “Then… why did you give me Anganil?”

Kellen thought hard—and honestly. “To teach you,” he finally said.

Cilarnen removed his cloak and set it aside. For a few minutes he was occupied—in silence—with changing from old clothes to new, stopping for a quick wash in between. Isinwen had even been able to provide a belt with a couple of carrying-pouches, though Cilarnen’s own Centaur-made knife would have to retain its own sheath until a new one could be made. It would look odd, but if he wore it toward the back, it would be hidden by the cloak.

When Cilarnen was dressed, he tucked his gloves through his belt in the fashion of Armethalieh, and smoothed his hand down the thick velvet. “You wanted to teach me that this is neither Armethalieh nor Stonehearth,” he said, understanding in his voice.