Mercedes Lackey - To Light A Candle

“Yes, but—”

“That’s why. You’re only using your own power, not the power gathered from the whole City.”

Kardus joined them—squirming less than gracefully out through the lodge’s doorway, which had certainly not been designed for Centaurs—and the three of them began to walk toward Kardus and Cilarnen’s tent.

“But— Then— I’m not ever going to be able to use most of the spells I know,” Cilarnen said.

“Maybe,” Kellen said. “Anigrel told me that everyone has the power that fuels Magery. Non-Mages have no use for it, so the Mages figured out a way to harvest and store it.” His voice hardened. “They didn’t ask permission, and they don’t pay for what they take. That’s wrong.”

“No,” Cilarnen said, slowly. “They do pay for it—with all the spells they do for the City. The power has to come from somewhere. You said so. The Mages work hard to keep the City running—I worked hard, when I was an Entered Apprentice. But…” Now he nodded. “You’re right about one thing. They should still tell people what they’re doing. The Commons have a right to know that they’re helping the City, too.”

It was a way of looking at the matter that Kellen hadn’t considered before. And it was true that the City was a pleasant place to live—if you followed the rules.

“So you’d have the High Mages tell the people what they were doing?” he asked curiously. “What if someone didn’t want to have his power harvested?”

He held his breath, waiting for Cilarnen’s answer. Let it be the right one.

“It’s just another tax—Light knows there are taxes enough,” Cilarnen said, shrugging dismissively. “If they didn’t want to pay this one, they’d have to leave, I suppose, because there’s no way to live in the City without getting the benefit of the spells and it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else to let them stay. A season mucking out stalls in one of the Delfier villages—like I did in Stonehearth—might convince them they’d rather pay the tax. Or they might like to farm, and not pay it. But either way, they’d know what was being taken, and whether or not they were willing to pay it. It’s not right to take it without telling them.”

Kellen let out his breath in a long sigh. The right answer indeed—and a number of ideas that would have the entire High Council in spinning fits if it ever heard them.

“There may be a solution to your problem of a power source. But we’ll need to solve Idalia’s first,” Kellen said.

They’d reached the tent—and just in time. The snow, which had been falling in a thin powdery dust, began to thicken, and Kellen felt the sting of sleet.

“Sleep well,” he said, and turned away.

—«♦»—

KELLEN and his troop spent the following day with Vestakia at the further cavern as she attempted to communicate with the Crystal Spiders.

It was frustrating work—not because the gentle otherworldly creatures weren’t willing to help, but because they were. Vestakia’s mind was flooded with images and information she found it impossible to interpret.

“I think ,” she said, sitting up in the midst of a ring of softly glowing Spiders, “that they do sense their kindred in other caverns. And I think there is at least one more cavern of Shadowed Elves—if I am understanding anything they tell me! But, Kellen—if they never leave their caverns, how can they tell me where the cavern is?”

Kellen shook his head. There had to be a solution to that riddle, if they could only find it. “At least we know we need to keep looking.”

“Maybe there’s something, well, distinctive enough that someone could recognize it if I could describe it,” Vestakia said. “But I’m getting a proper headache seeing the world through eight eyes instead of two!”

“Then you need to stop. Tell them you’ll come back and talk with them again.” Maps. We need maps showing where all the caves beneath the Elven Lands are. Too bad there aren’t any .

Vestakia sighed and lay back down. The Crystal Spiders moved over her in a softly-glowing wave, and then retreated once she had spoken to them, moving quickly into the far depths of the cave. She rolled to her knees. Kellen turned away, and Isinwen moved forward to help her to her feet.

He mustn’t think about her. Mustn’t care if she was cold, or tired… because if he did, he’d never be able to stop. And he’d never stop with just thinking.

—«♦»—

“I know what you’re going to ask.”

Jermayan waited.

The remains of Ancaladar’s breakfast—Vestakia had brought the bullock up before she’d left for the cavern—was nothing more than a few smears of blood upon the snow; the dragon was a tidy eater. Keeping him fed had not precisely been a strain on the army’s resources, but it had required careful planning. Still, a promise was a promise: Ancaladar had not had to hunt for himself since he had accepted Jermayan’s Bond.

Last night, after the Wildmages’ conclave, Jermayan had come here, to the place he and Ancaladar often shared. It was an ice-pavilion, similar to others he had built, but large enough to hold Ancaladar comfortably and shelter the dragon from the wind and the snow. There was even stabling for Valdien, for Ancaladar’s “pavilion” was a certain distance from the camp, almost at the edge of the forest, to discourage idle sightseers.

Jermayan had explained everything that had taken place. Perhaps it was only an act of courtesy—Jermayan was still not entirely certain how much of his thoughts the dragon shared—but he found that talking matters over with his friend helped to clear his own mind.

He had asked for nothing.

“Ask, then.” The dragon was coiled half-out of his pavilion, his sinuous neck curved about so that his jaw rested on the snow just before his foreclaws.

Jermayan swung down from Valdien’s saddle and walked forward.

“Will you—will we—join in this link Idalia proposes? I do not yet understand how it may be done, but she seems to feel it can be learned. And Cilarnen is anxious to teach it.”

“I could say no,” Ancaladar said.

Jermayan knew that the dragon’s greatest fear—bordering on paranoia—was to be taken —used as nothing more than a reservoir of magical power.

He knelt in the snow by Ancaladar’s head.

“Beloved, I will let no one harm you. At least… it is a risk all will share equally. Every Wildmage. Without our power, I do not think it will succeed. And nothing can destroy our Bond.”

“If I said no, you could force me,” Ancaladar said, very softly. “You could take what you needed.”

“But I would not,” Jermayan said, reaching out to stroke Ancaladar’s head. “I would only ask for your help. I would never take what you did not wish to give.”

Ancaladar hesitated. Jermayan could feel the dragon’s fear.

And felt it begin to ebb.

“Yes,” Ancaladar said at last. “We will share in the spells.”

—«♦»—

WHEN Kellen and his party reached the camp again, there was good news awaiting them.

“We’ve solved the problem—the first of them, anyway,” Idalia said. There’d been a message waiting at the horse-lines for Kellen to come and see her, and he’d finally tracked her down in her tent.

He was surprised to see Cilarnen there as well. He was lying on Idalia’s bedroll, a compress over his eyes.

Idalia shrugged, following Kellen’s look. “Oh, he doesn’t want any spells cast on him. But he doesn’t have any objection to casting spells on someone else. So after we spent the morning getting nowhere, Kardus finally got the idea of asking him about the other spells he knew. He cast something called Knowing on Atroist—all with permission, of course—and put the spell directly into Atroist’s mind. Atroist got a hideous headache and Cilarnen passed out. But then Atroist knew exactly how the High Mages perform the Linking Spell, and was able to explain it to the rest of us. We’re going to try it tonight, now that Kindolhinadetil’s mirror has arrived. We don’t need the link for that, but it’s a good idea to practice it. And how was your day?”