The Mage Winds Omnibus

The alarm cry of a falcon woke him at dawn—and the answering, deeper scream of a hawk.

He started awake, all at once, and knew he was not at home. The rock floor, the lack of movement, and the darkness told him that much before he even opened his eyes. His hand was on his knife-hilt as he blinked the haze of sleep away, running rapidly through all the possibilities of where he was and what had become of his ekele—

Treyvan’s lair— That was all he had a chance to remember as the falcon cried alarm again. He cast about for the door, still disoriented by the strange surroundings.

:Out!: Vree demanded, his mental cry as shrill and penetrating as his physical scream. :Out now! Hurry! Help!:

That wasn’t the “Help me” version, it was “I need your help.” He scrambled over Treyvan’s prone body as the gryphon struggled up out of sleep. “Grrrruh?” Treyvan responded, as Darkwind slid down his haunches and into the sunlight. “Wrrrrhat?”

There were two birds up above, one flapping as clumsily as a just-fledged crow, the other unmistakably Vree. The gyre circled in guard-fashion above the first, protecting it as it tried to come in to land. It was a red-shouldered hawk. It was—Dawnfire!

She doesn’t know how to land—he realized, just as Treyvan shouldered him aside, leapt into the sky, rose to meet her, and scooped her from the air with his outstretched talons. He wheeled and dropped, cradling her safely in his foreclaws, coming to rest delicately on his hind feet only, in a thunder of wing-claps, before Darkwind realized what he was doing.

Treyvan balanced precariously as he alighted, keeping himself from falling with his outstretched wings. The bird lay exhausted in Treyvan’s claws, every last bit of energy long since spent. Darkwind took her from the gryphon, and held her in his arms, like an injured, shocked fledgling. She lay panting, eyes closed, as he folded her wings over her back, and stroked her head.

Another hand joined his; a hard, but feminine hand. It was Elspeth, wearing only a thin undershift and hose, but carrying her blade unsheathed in her other hand. Her eyes were closed; a slight frown was her only expression—but the moment her fingers touched Dawnfire’s back, the bird began to revive.

Her head lifted, and she craned it around to stare up at him. :Darkwind?: she Mindspoke, softly. :Is this real, or some illusion he created to torment me? Am I truly free? And home?:

“You’re free, ke’chara,” he replied, anger and grief combined rising to choke off his words. It was one thing to know intellectually that she might have been trapped in her bird’s body; it was another to see it, Sense it.

:I saw Vree, or he saw me, I forget,: she said, closing her eyes again, and bending her head, as if she did not want to see him through the hawk’s eyes. :He brought me here, but I was so tired—:

“The sword will work better through direct contact,” Elspeth said quietly. “If you can put her down on my bed, and I can lay Need next to her—”

No sooner spoken than done; and with the blade touching her, Dawnfire gained strength quickly, asking for water and food. The latter Darkwind fed her as he would an eyas: little morsels cut from a fresh rabbit that Vree brought back within moments of her asking for something to eat. She took each tidbit daintily, and it was plain from her condition that she had not been feeding well in Mornelithe’s hands. Outwardly he was calm. Inwardly he was in turmoil. How to tell her that her body was dead—that she was still as trapped now as she was in Falconsbane’s hands? There was no hint of Kyrr in her thoughts—so the blade’s guess, that Mornelithe had killed the bird’s spirit with her body, was probably right. That gave them a little more time than if she’d had to share Kyrr’s mind—but it would only postpone the end a little longer.

Joy at her recovery, anguish at her condition, rage at the one who had brought her to this—guilt because he was partly to blame. Warring emotions kept him silent as he fed her, wondering what to say and how to say it.

:Darkwind, you’re in danger,: she interrupted urgently. She twisted her head to look at the strangers. :You’re all in danger, terrible danger!:

Quickly she told them of all she had heard; and most importantly, of Falconsbane’s new plan, his decision to make Outland alliances.

Alliances? Oh, blessed gods— He forgot his other worries in the face of this new threat, for Falconsbane alone was bad enough. Falconsbane with allies was a prospect too awful to contemplate. Allies with mage-powers, allies with armies—either would spell disaster for the precarious hold k’Sheyna maintained on power here, but this Ancar evidently had mages and armies, according to Elspeth. K’Sheyna would be obliterated, and every other Vale faced with a formidable threat.

The Heralds—and their Companions—questioned Dawnfire closely as he closed his eyes and tried to think of all the possibilities. Their reaction was identical to his—not too surprising, given that he thought this “Ancar” that Dawnfire said Falconsbane was meeting was undoubtedly the same man who had been doing his best to level their land. It was not a common name; it was beyond likely that there were two of them.

And although it seemed a terribly long way to travel just for a meeting with a possible ally, Mornelithe was a powerful Adept, and a desirable acquisition, so far as Ancar’s position was concerned. The King of Hardorn needed mages; he’d been actively recruiting them. He might not yet have any Adept-class; it might be well worth it to him to come this far.

:He said he was meeting the man in three days,: Dawnfire was saying when he opened his eyes again to pay attention to what was going on around him. Now there were seven sets of eyes fixed on the exhausted hawk; the two Heralds, the two gryphons, the pair of Companions, and Nyara, who seemed as upset as any of them.

He thought he knew the reason why. Perhaps she sees herself in Dawnfire’s entrapment…

:That was two days ago,: Dawnfire continued. :I escaped that afternoon, and I’ve been flying in circles ever since, trying to find my way home. So today, or the day after, they will meet.:

“Ancar wouldn’t have come all this way just to turn around,” Elspeth said grimly. “He wants this alliance, wants it badly. He’s got no other reason to leave his own realm, and I don’t care how much Hulda taught him, he wouldn’t leave the place even in her hands if there was any other way out. Gods—with Falconsbane’s power and Ancar’s armies—and his recklessness—we won’t have a chance. We’ve got to stop this before it happens.”

“We have an opportunity to put paid to both our enemies,” Darkwind growled, his hands clenched into fists. “Not only to stop this alliance, but take both our enemies at one stroke. I must talk to the Elders.”

He started to get up; Skif caught his elbow and his attention. “You’d better include Elspeth in your plans, no matter what else you do,” he whispered, “or she’s likely to march right in there on her own.”

She, who holds a grudge like an eyas binds to a kill. He nodded curtly, annoyed, but knowing Skif was right.

The gryphons had a grudge of their own to settle. They probably wouldn’t try to stop her.

:Settle down, you lot!: Need growled suddenly, startling all of them. :I don’t know what’s set the burr under your tails so you aren’t thinking, children, but I stopped falling for tricks like this one a millennium ago and I’m not going to let you cart me into a trap now. I said he likely wouldn’t be able to use me; I’d prefer not to put that to the test, if you don’t mind.:

:Let me spell it out for you. Dawnfire was allowed to escape, so that she could bring you this trumped-up story. So that you lot would go charging off straight into his loving arms.:

Nyara was the first to recover. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “It is too, too like my own escape—an escape that was not. This sword is right!”

Elspeth set her chin stubbornly, her eyes flashing for a moment, then sighed, and threw up her hands. “Bright Havens, I want to believe it, I really do, because it’s such a good chance to get the bastard now, while he’s away from his support and his army—but you’re right, you’re both right. It’s too damned pat, too coincidental. Mother’s intelligence web had Ancar safe in his own palace when we left. We made much better time than he could have because we’re riding Companions. The only way he could possibly have matched our time would be to ride in relays, and how would he manage that off his own lands? He has farther to come than we did on top of all that. So how could he possibly be arriving here just at the same moment we did?”

“And why sssshould he perrrmit Dawnfirrre to overhearrrr hisss plansss?” Treyvan rumbled. “Mossst essspecially, why ssshould he have given herrr to one who wasss not competent with hawksss to take to the mewsss? He wanted herrr to fly to usss with thisss.”

“And then wanted us to—what?” Elspeth asked. “Falconsbane never does anything for just one reason. He wants us not only to try and break up this nonexistent meeting, he wants us moved. Why? What’s so special about this neutral area where the supposed ‘meeting’ is? Is it a particularly good place to stage a double ambush?”

“There’s nothing special about it that I know of,” Darkwind replied, frowning with concentration.

:He can’t have meant to catch you as he caught the dyheli, can he?: Dawnfire asked, drooping a little, as she, too, acknowledged the fact that her escape had been too easy. :He deliberately reminded me of what he had done to them there—:

“Which probably means he wanted us to concentrate on that as well,” Skif mused aloud. “We know he wants the sword. From what Quenten told me, he probably wants Elspeth as well.”

“Oh, yes,” Nyara agreed, nodding her head vigorously. “Yes, an untrained mage? He uses such as tools. He would be pleased to have you in his hands, lady.”

“So, is there anything else he wants? Something we’d leave unprotected—something even the whole Clan might leave unprotected, if we went to them and got more help for this?” Skif continued.

Elspeth glanced sideways at Darkwind. “The Vale itself ?” she hazarded. “Or your father?”

He shook his head. “No, the static protections are too much for him to crack easily. We could return and entrap him before he had even begun to break the outermost shields.”

“The Heartssstone?” asked Treyvan, then answered himself. “No, it isss the sssame as for the Vale—”

The squall of a hungry young gryphon cut across their speculations, and sent all eyes in the direction of the inner lair.

“Yes!” Nyara cried, in mingled pain and triumph. “Yes—that is what he wants—as much as sword and mage, and Starblade and Starblade’s son! Revenge, and the souls of your younglings!”

“And I…” Treyvan whispered, his eyes wide with horror, “nearrrly gave it all away to him… again.”

It had taken Darkwind no time at all to create a scale-model of the area around the lair, using rocks, twigs, and the flat expanse of sand near the entrance. It was the only place big enough for all of them. Elspeth shook off the many memories of time spent bending over a sand-table with Kero, and paid close attention to Darkwind. She wondered now how she could have mistaken simple stress for arrogance.

Not thinking clearly lately, are we? she asked herself. Not observing at all well. When this is over, it might be a good idea to take a few days to rest and think. About a lot of things.

“You’ll be here,” Darkwind said to Skif, placing a pinecone on the bits of rock representing the ruins to the left of the lair.

“And I’ll be moving around if I can’t get a good knife or bow-shot from there,” Skif added.

The Hawkbrother nodded. “Exactly so. You are best as mobile as possible. Now, the little ones, Dawnfire, and the sword will be here, in front of the lair.” He placed a cluster of weed-stripped seed-heads and a sliver of wood before the large stone representing the lair, and gave Elspeth a penetrating glance. “You are certain you are willing to give up the use of the blade? It seems unfair.”

Elspeth shrugged. “It was Need’s choice, remember,” she pointed out. “We’ve got to protect the bait somehow, and two of the three of them are female.”

:Crap, I’ll take care of the little male, too,: the blade said gruffly. :What do you think I am, some kind of baby-killer? Besides, the bastard would twist him up as badly as he has Nyara, if he got his claws on the lad.:

“You are not such poor bait yourself, blade-lady,” Darkwind replied. “He wants you as well, as I recall.”

“No help coming frrrom the Vale?” asked Hydona, leaning over Skif’s shoulder to look at the setup.

Darkwind shook his head. “Not since the message I sent them by bondbird-relay. They are rightly fearful that this may be a double ruse—a feint at the little ones, a pretense that draws us into ambush, and a real strike at the Vale. They have been badly shaken by what they have seen done to my father and do not share my confidence in their own shields. They have called in all the scouts but myself, and are bracing for attack.”

“Firrrssst ssssmarrrt thing they’ve decided in agesss,” Treyvan growled, “Even if it doesss leave usss to bearrr the burrrden of ourrrr own defenssssessss. I take it we are herrre, and herrrre?”

The gryphon pointed a talon at two feathers stuck in the sand on the opposite side of the lair from Skif’s initial position, behind a line of rocks representing the wall the lair had been built into.

“Precisely,” Darkwind agreed, “And here are Elspeth and myself.” He dropped two rough quartz-crystals opposite the gryphons aind nearer to the lair than Skif. “Then the Companions, watching for his creatures coming at us from behind.” Two large white flowers, one beside Skif’s pinecone, one beside Elspeth’s crystal. “Treyvan, we will try to bracket him with magic; once that occurs I do not think he will be looking for a physical attack. That is where you come in—” he nodded at Skif. “And you, because of that, are the pivotal point of the defense. You look for your opening and take it. The man is as mortal as any to a well-placed knife or arrow. You are our hidden token, our wild piece.”

“What about me?” Nyara asked, in a small voice. “Is there nothing I can do?”

Elspeth bit her lip to keep from saying what she was thinking; that there was no way they could trust the Changechild enough to give her a part to play. They certainly couldn’t make her part of the bait; neither the gryphons nor Darkwind wanted her near enough to be in range for an attack on them if her father regained control of her.

“Falconsbane does not know you are still with us,” Darkwind said, after an uncomfortable silence. “The longer this remains so, the better.”

:Is this wise?: Darkwind asked Elspeth worriedly. She shook her head just enough to make her hair stir imperceptibly.

:He’s assassin-trained,: she replied, wishing there were somewhere safe they could leave Nyara until this was all over. :And Cymry will be with him, watching his back, the way Gwena will be watching ours. She won’t be able to catch him with an unexpected attack. I just hope he doesn’t find himself in the position of being forced to let Cymry kill her.:

Anything more he might have intended to say was lost, for at that moment, Vree sounded the alert from overhead.

Falconsbane prowled the woods that the Birdmen thought were theirs with an ease they would have found appalling, noting the increased levels of shielding about the Vale with a mixture of contempt and anger. There was no doubt of it; they had poured more power into their old shields, added new, and every Adept within the Vale was undoubtedly on alert. The tentative plan he’d formed to extract Starblade from his protectors and retrain him for further use was obviously out of the question now.

He paused in the shelter of a wild tangle of briars and searched for a weak point. There was nothing of the sort. Since there was no one to see him, he permitted himself a savage snarl. All that work, all the patience, the careful planning, the investment of power in Starblade’s transformation to puppet, and in the construct that controlled him—all wasted!

He wished he had been able to see through the simulacrum’s eyes, but the protections about the Vale had made that impossible. He still had no real idea what had happened when he’d lost his contact with the simulacrum. Starblade had been near the Heartstone; he knew that much. Since it had been near dawn, Falconsbane assumed that he must have been conducting his usual nonproductive assessment of the state of the Heartstone. Then, out of nowhere, a flash of panic from the crow—

And then, the backlash of power as the bird was destroyed. Why, or by whom, he’d had no clue.

He had immediately diverted the wild, uncontrolled power, killing one of his servants—the toady of a secretary, Daelon, who had the misfortune to be nearest.

That wasn’t too much of a loss; Daelon had been useless as a mage, and only moderately useful as a secretary. But any loss at all angered him. He had lashed back immediately, flinging spells intended to resnare Starblade before anyone could protect him. It might have been an accident; it might have been the foolish simulacrum venturing into someone’s protected area, or even bumbling into something—doing something as stupid as frightening a pet firebird. Any of those things could have killed it.

But as his spells battered against a new and powerful set of shields, it became obvious that it had not been accident that killed the simulacrum. It had been deliberate; his plots had been discovered.

And later tries against Starblade had proven just as fruitless. The Birdman had been well protected within shields that predated Falconsbane’s interference with the Heartstone; strong, unflawed shields that he could find no way past.

Now he passed within easy striking distance of the Vale—“striking” distance, only if he’d had that alliance with Ancar of Hardorn that he had feigned, if he’d had a dedicated corps of mages, Masters and Adepts—and as he saw the shimmer of power above the Vale he could only curse at his own impotence. Somehow, some way, someone within k’Sheyna had learned what he had done to Starblade, had surmised how he controlled the handsome fool. Perhaps it had been one of the Adept’s former lovers; in retrospect it had been a mistake to force Starblade to retreat into hermitlike isolation. But he had been afraid that the new persona he had laid over the old would not withstand the scrutiny of close examination.

I should have let him keep his lovers; should have had him employ some of the pleasuring techniques he learned at my hands. That would have kept them quiet enough. Nothing stops questionings like unbridled lust and the exhaustion afterward.

It was too late now; he’d not only lost Starblade, he’d lost the Vale. The Birdmen were alert now; there would be no subterfuge clever enough to bypass their protections, and though weakened, they were too formidable for him to take alone.

With luck, the two Outlanders and Starblade’s son were on their way to the trap he’d laid for them. Camped within the valley even now were a host of human servants, garbed in the livery of Ancar of Hardorn, led by one who was like enough to that monarch to be his twin. And no illusion had been involved; the conscript was already similar in height, build, and coloring—the same spells that sculpted changes into Falconsbane’s flesh had been used at a subtler level to reform this human’s face. There would be lingering traces of magic, but that was what the Outlanders would expect. Ancar was a mage, after all.

Once the Outlanders were in place, watching, the rest of his army would take them from behind.

If I cannot have Starblade, I will have Starblade’s son. If I cannot take my vengeance upon the Vale, I can take it upon his sweet, young flesh.

There would be that other young man—malleable, possibly of some use as well. Certainly an entertaining bit of amusement. Likely to be a bargaining chip in some way.

And then there was the girl. Her potential as a mage was high. She was curiously naive in some areas; and that left her a wide range of vulnerable points for Falconsbane to exploit. It had been a very long time since he’d broken a female Adept to his will. He was going to take his time with this one; there would be no mistakes that way—and it would, not incidentally, prolong the pleasure as well.

He slid from shadow to shadow beneath the trees, as surefooted and quiet as the lynx he had modeled himself on. As keen of ear, swift of eye, and cunning—

Not even the Birdmen, the scouts and their so-clever birds had ever caught him. He had been wandering freely amid their woodlands since k’Sheyna first settled here. And they never once guessed at his silent presence.

My fighters will take Starblade and the Outlanders, and kill or catch the gryphons. I hope they can catch them. I want the satisfaction of killing them myself.

The deep hatred that always rose in him at the thought of gryphons choked his throat and made him grind his teeth in frustration. No matter how remote the memories of his other lives were, that one was clear, balefully clear.

Gryphons. They had foiled his bid for supremacy in the Mage-Wars, they had defied his power, ruined his plans, destroyed his kingdom—

Gryphons. Wretched beasts, they were no more than jumped-up constructs. How dared they think of themselves as sentients, equal to human, independent and proud of their independence? How dared they use magic, as if they had a right to do so? How dared they breed at all?

Animals they were, and one day he would reduce them to the position of brute animals again. And in so doing, he would achieve the sweetest revenge of all, for he would undo everything that the wretched beast who had brought him down had lived and worked for. Only then would he be able to face the memory of Skandranon, the Black Gryphon, with satisfaction.

I will have the parents, he thought, snarling, as he slipped through the underbrush without leaving so much as a footprint behind. But most importantly, I will have the children. And through them I will not only control the node, but have the downfall of the entire race in my hands. Through them I can spread a plague and a poison that will destroy the minds of any gryphon they meet, and turn them into mere carnivorous cattle. My cattle. To use as I wish. And it is time and more than time that I have that pleasure.

He entered the area of the ruins, skirting the edge just within the cover of the forest. The lair lay beneath the shadows of the trees in the morning, though it enjoyed full sunlight in the afternoon. This was the nearest he had been, save for that one quick foray to place his hand and seal on the youngsters, binding them to himself.

They can’t have left the young ones alone, without some form of protection. There may be shields, or some of the beast-guardians. He paused for a moment, one deeper shadow within the shadows, his spotted pelt blending with the dappled sunlight on the dead leaves beneath the trees, with the mottled bark of the trunk beside him. He wore scouting leathers very similar to what the Birdmen wore; that was one subterfuge that had stood him in good stead in the past. If he was seen, he had only to create a fleeting illusion of Birdman features, and other scouts would assume he was one of their number.

A quick glance upward showed him nothing was aloft—nothing but what he expected. Two tiny specks, hardly large enough to be seen, circling overhead. Waiting. That would do.

He set out a questing finger of Mage-Sight, looking for what might have been left behind with the gryphon young.

A shimmering aura flickered about the lair in a delicate rainbow of protection. But beneath the shimmer—a brighter glow of power. The shields I knew of—yes—and something more—

They had left the artifact behind to guard the young ones! Its protections were unmistakable, and just the touch of them awoke avarice in his heart. The age—the power—woman’s power, but there is little I cannot overcome and turn to my own use—I must have this thing. I must! And they have left it for my taking!

Elation faded, replaced by cold caution. Perhaps the Outlanders would be that foolish, and even the gryphons—but would Darkwind? The boy was a canny player; surely he had left more protections behind than that, for all that he had renounced magic.

Falconsbane Looked farther, deeper into the ruins than he had ever bothered before; looking for traps, for any hint of magic, even old, or apparently inactive magic. It was always possible that some ancient ward or guardian still existed here that Darkwind had left armed against him.

He Looked farther still. He had assumed that they knew by now what he had done to the young ones. Was it possible, barely possible, that they did not know of his hand on the gryphlets? Had he overestimated their intelligence, their caution? Was it possible after all that they had been so caught up in what he had done to Starblade and Dawnfire that they had missed his sign and seal on their own young? Or could it be that the advent of the Outlanders had distracted them?

No. No, that is why they left the artifact, I am sure of it. To protect the young against me. The shields are too obviously set against my power; even the shields of the artifact itself.

Then, just when he thought perhaps he was searching in vain for further traps, he caught a hint of magic-energy, a tremor of power. Old magic.

It was not active, but the presence of magic that ancient attracted his curiosity anyway. He had time to spare; such potentials were worth investigating. It was probably nothing; perhaps some long-abandoned shrine, or an ancient talisman, buried beneath a mound of rubble. It might be worth retrieving at some point, if only as a curiosity.

He moved in for a closer Look, half-closing his eyes, his talons digging into the bark of the tree beside him as he concentrated.

And he tore an entire section of bark from the tree trunk as his hand closed convulsively.

No. Yes. It couldn’t be. Not the site of a temporary Gate, but one of the rare, powerful, permanent Gates—

No more than a handful of Adepts at the time of the Mage-Wars had ever constructed permanent Master Gates; they required endless patience, vast expenditures of energy that could have gone into constructing armies and weapons. Those few who had done so had made a network of such Gates, all tied into one another, crisscrossing their little kingdoms. Urtho had been one of those; that was how the Kaled’a’in had survived the downfall of his kingdom to become the Shin’a’in and Tayledras—they had fled through the Gate at the heart of his citadel to one on the edge of the area. Possibly even this one. Falconsbane had never built one—not in any of his lifetimes. He’d known of the network Urtho had built, of course, but he had never once entertained the idea that even part of that network could still exist.

A Gate, even a Master Gate, couldn’t have survived the Wars, or the years, could it? It simply wasn’t possible—

Falconsbane could not ignore the proof of his own senses. It was possible. And the Gate had survived.

The touch of it drove him wild with the desire to have it under his control. The node, the gryphons, the artifact, and now this—

He had to have it. He would have it. Then he would excavate it, study it, learn how to set it—and use it, use it to penetrate to the remains of Urtho’s stronghold at the heart of the Plains. With a Gate like this one, he could bypass all the protections of the damned horse-lovers, get in, get what he wanted, and get out with no interference. He could go anywhere there was another permanent Gate, whether or not he knew the territory. He could construct temporary Gates no matter where he was and link into this one at any distance, once he keyed it into himself. Working that way would drain only a fraction of the energy of an ordinary Gate-spell from him. That was the deadly burden of Gating; the energy for the Gate came from the mage.

Or from someone tied to the mage with the kind of bond as deep as a lifebond. Not many knew that a mage tied by a lifebond to another mage could feed his beloved with the energies needed to fuel the Gate-spell.

Fewer knew what Falconsbane knew, that there was another bond as deep as a lifebond; the bond he built between himself and his victim when he made that victim an extension of himself.

As deep as a lifebond; it had to be, to survive the endless struggle of his victims to be free. Built out of both pleasure and pain at the most primitive, instinctive levels, it made his servants need him more than they needed food, drink, sleep—

That opened all their resources to him; to the point, if needed, that he could drain them to their death. He could use those resources to open the Gate and make it his in a way that no other Adept ever had.

But first—he had to make the area his. And that meant retrieving and subverting the young gryphons, to open up the node to his use. Right now there didn’t appear to be anything in the way of that.

He released the trunk of the tree, dropping bits of wood and bark as he shook his tingling hand, and stepped cautiously out into the sunlight.

He kept to the shadows, still. There was no point in walking about in the open and alerting a perfectly ordinary guard. It was entirely possible that one or more of those tiresome scouts had been posted here, and Falconsbane had no intention of walking into one of them.

Still, there seemed to be nothing at all blocking his way as he approached the site of the nest. Finally he straightened, and moved into the open, taking a deliberate pace or two forward before the young ones noticed him.

They looked at him curiously, with their heads cocked to one side, as if they had never seen him before. He smiled with satisfaction.

Good. The spell I cast before I left them, to cloud their memories, worked. They do not fear me, so they will not call for help until it is too late.

“Hello, little ones,” he purred, and moved into the open. But then something fluttering on the ground caught his eye, and he stopped, suddenly wary.

Flowers. Feathers. Rocks laid in deliberate patterns that teased his memory; he paused for a moment, frowning, as he tried to match pattern with memory.

So that’s the plan, is it? He noted the position of the lone brown pinecone. I think not.

He stood very still, listening for movement behind him. There—the scrape of leather on stone; the whisper of wood on wood, sliding.

He whirled, both hands spread before him, and caught the white-clad young man full in the chest with the bolt of magic, before the Outlander could loose the arrow he had nocked to his bowstring.

A second power-blast left Falconsbane’s hands before the first reached its target; this one aimed, not at the man, but at the horse behind him. The “horse” that radiated the same kind of power as some of those damned nomad shamans.

The bow snapped, the arrow shattered, and the young man was blasted off his feet to land in an unconscious heap some distance away.

Mornelithe smiled with great satisfaction. He had deliberately held back his strength when he recognized the Outlander clothing. He wanted to—discuss a few things with this young man.

But a feline shriek of pure rage tore through the air, startling him, and he turned again as Nyara—Nyara?—leapt upon him, teeth and talons bared, prepared to rip his throat out.

He had no time for other than a purely instinctive reaction; he backhanded her with all his strength, catching her in mid-leap, and sending her flying across the clearing and into the two young gryphons. There was a squeal of outrage from the largest as Nyara landed atop it, and a squawk of fear from the smallest.

He drew his arms up in a defensive gesture, his powers massing around him in his shields as bolts of mage-energies blasted him from either side.

“What’s he doing?” Elspeth whispered to Darkwind, as the Adept calling himself “Mornelithe Falconsbane” paused just outside the ambush zone. He was certainly everything that Darkwind and Nyara’s stories had painted him.

Her very first sight of him had terrified her, despite having seen his daughter Nyara and fought his monsters, the things Darkwind called “Misborn,” and she had no idea why. Perhaps it was the fact that Falconsbane was so obviously once human, but had given up that humanity. Perhaps it was the cold and focused quality of his gaze. Perhaps it was simply what she knew of him. Darkwind had confided to her—and her only, perhaps because he trusted her, perhaps he thought these were things she in particular needed to hear—some of the horrors that Iceshadow had extracted from Starblade. Nyara wore a haunted look that made her certain—horrible as the idea was—that Falconsbane had visited some of those same torments on his own daughter.

Yet what she knew of him was no worse than some of what she had learned concerning Ancar. Neither made for easy dreams… but Falconsbane was nearer right now than Ancar.

Falconsbane was surely the stuff of which nightmares were made; there was very little of the human left after all the changes he had wrought upon himself, but the effect he had created was of something warped, and not for the better. If one took a lynx, sculpted a perfect human body with a half-human face, then granted it an aura of power that was nothing like anything she had ever experienced before—it still would not be Mornelithe Falconsbane. He was sinister and beautiful, all at the same time, and Elspeth found herself shivering at the mere sight of him.

He had simply appeared, some time after Vree’s cry of warning. She had not seen him approach; he was simply there, standing amid the rocks, looking down at the earth. “What is he looking at?” she repeated, as Darkwind frowned.

She had no chance to ask him what was wrong; even as he rose to a half-crouch, Falconsbane whirled and dropped to one knee, arms outstretched, hands palm out. Elspeth’s stomach knotted with fear.

Darkwind uttered a strangled cry and rose to his feet, flinging one hand protectively toward Skif.

Too late. Elspeth choked on a cry of horror as Falconsbane’s bolt of magic struck Skif and threw him into the stones of a ruined wall.

And too late for Cymry, as well; a second bolt struck her, dropping her where she stood like a stricken deer.

Elspeth’s horrified “No!” was lost in the scream of pure hatred that tore the air like a jagged blade as Skif’s limp body dropped to the stones beyond Cymry’s.

It was Nyara, leaping in defense of Skif, who attacked her father with the only weapons at her disposal; her claws and teeth, her face a snarling animal-mask of pain, anguish, and hatred.

He intercepted her in mid-leap, and with a single blow of his powerful arm, flung her across the open space to land stunned atop the largest of the young gryphons.

There was no time to wonder if Skif and Cymry survived; no time even to think. She bottled her fear, her anger, though they made her want to run to her old friend’s side—or run and hide. The Hawkbrother had joined in combat with the Changechild Adept, and there was no turning back now. Elspeth joined her power to Darkwind’s, feeding him with the raw energy she drew up from the node. He knew how to use it; she could only watch and learn—for when he tired, it would be her turn to strike. From the other side, lances of fire rained down on Falconsbane, power pouring from the outstretched claws of Treyvan, with his mate backing him as she backed Darkwind.

For a moment, it was impossible to see the Adept beneath the double attack—and during that moment she dared to hope.

But then, a shadow appeared amid the glare of power—then more than a shadow—then—

She thought she cried out; she certainly fell back a pace or two and covered her eyes with her upraised arm, as Darkwind’s blast of power reflected back into their faces.

When she blinked her tearing eyes clear, Falconsbane stood untouched, within a circle of scorched earth.

Darkwind had taken the brunt of the blast on their side, as had Treyvan on the gryphons’. Treyvan crouched with head hanging, panting; Darkwind was on his knees beside her, shaking his own head, dazed and unable to speak.

Falconsbane ignored the rest and concentrated his cold gaze on her. Her stomach turned into a cold ball of ice. He smiled, and she stepped back another pace, her hand reaching for a sword she no longer wore, palms sweating, feeling the blood drain from her face.

“Well,” he said, his voice full of amusement. “So you have some fight still. I will enjoy breaking you, Outlander.” His eyes narrowed, and his voice lowered to a seductive purr. “I will enjoy taking both your mind and your body—”

“Not this day,” called a high voice, in pure Shin’a’in, from the ruins behind Falconsbane.

Falconsbane’s head snapped around; Elspeth gathered her primitive, clumsy power just in case this was nothing more than a ruse.

But there were people behind the Adept; perched atop rocks, peering from behind walls, an entire line of people. Black-clad, one and all, some veiled, some not, but all with the same cold, implacable purpose in their ice-blue eyes. And one and all with drawn bows pointed at Falconsbane’s heart.

“Not this day, nor any other,” Darkwind coughed, struggling to his feet. Elspeth gave him a hand, and stood beside him, helping him balance. He did not look to be in any shape to enforce those brave words; he swayed as he stood, even with Elspeth’s unobtrusive support, and his face was drawn with pain.

But there were all those arrows pointed at Falconsbane; surely they had him now—didn’t they?

After the first flash of surprise, Falconsbane straightened again and laughed, sending a chill down Elspeth’s back. “Do you think me so poor a player, then, to show all my counters before the game is over?”

She had no idea of where the thing came from, but suddenly it was dropping down out of the clouds—a huge, black, bat-winged creature that seemed big enough to swallow her whole and have room for Gwena afterward. It buffeted her with its wings, knocking her off her feet with a single blow, then slammed her into a rock—all the breath was driven out of her by the impact; her head snapped back against the stone, and she slid down it, seeing stars.

She blacked out for a moment, but fought back from the dark abyss that threatened to swallow her consciousness. As she struggled back, shaking her head and swallowing the bile of nausea, Falconsbane laughed again.

Her eyes cleared. That was when she saw that there were two of the things. One of them had Hydona trapped beneath it, its talons on her throat, ready to rip it out if she struggled. She looked out helplessly as the creature drew blood and looked expectantly at its master. Then Elspeth could only stare in horror—

Darkwind lay in a heap just beyond her; eyes closed, unmoving. Treyvan faced the beast that had his mate with every feather and hair standing on end, kill-lust making him tremble. Muscles rippled as he restrained himself from attacking, and the stone beneath his talons flaked away in little chips from the pressure of his claws.

:Don’t!: the Companion shot back. :Don’t move, don’t anger it!: Her mind-voice died to a whisper as the beast tightened its grip on her, and little beads of blood stained her white coat under its talons. :Don’t do anything. Please.:

“Stalemate, I think?” Falconsbane said genially. The arrows of the Shin’a’in did not waver, but neither did the archers loose them.

Hydona uttered a wail that was choked off by the brutal grip of the beast prisoning her. Treyvan seethed with rage, eyes burning with fury.

“It is not yours, Changechild,” said one of the Shin’a’in, in a hollow voice that sounded as if it came up from the depths of a well. “It was not made by you, it does not obey you; it is not yours.”

Falconsbane lifted an eyebrow. And half-turned to lash out with yet another bolt of power; this one aimed at the young gryphons, a flood of poisonous red.

The cry was torn from Elspeth’s throat—but from others as well. One of those others was free to act.

Nyara leapt to her feet, her hands full of Need’s hilt, holding it between herself and her father. The bolt of power struck the blade instead of the young gryphons, and built with an ear-shattering wail as Need collected the blast—

And changed it; from sickly red to burnished gold. Elspeth’s heart stopped as she watched, not fully understanding what was happening but fearing the worst. She heard Darkwind mutter something about “transmuting,” and then he trailed off into a stream of what she guessed to be incredulous Tayledras curses.

Need split the sphere of power in two, one half enveloping each young gryphon, filling them with light. Falconsbane’s scream of rage drowned Elspeth’s gasp of joy, but it could not stop what was happening. The golden light burned away at a kind of shadow within the two youngsters—the shadows melted even as she watched, melted and evaporated, leaving them clean of its taint.

Distracted by the light and their master’s cry of outrage, Mornelithe’s dark beasts loosed their grip a little.

Faster than a striking viper, he whipped the climbing-stick that never left him from the sheath on his back, and hooked it into the beast’s throat. He never gave the creature a chance to realize what had happened; he yanked the hook toward himself, giving Gwena the opening to kick and buck herself free of it as the creature tried to both right itself and disengage the hook that was tearing its flesh from inside. The Companion scrambled out of the way, sides heaving, legs trembling, blood pouring from a dozen puncture wounds, to collapse at Elspeth’s feet.

Elspeth hovered protectively over Gwena; the Companion was shaking like an aspen leaf in the wind, but her wounds were already closing. She leapt up to stand between Gwena and the beast, but there was no need for her protection. She had wondered about Darkwind’s peculiar weapontool; now she saw how an expert used it.

Darkwind’s face was contorted into a snarl of rage as he attacked the creature, forcing it to go on the defensive; the spiked end of the tool drove into an eye, blinding the beast, as Darkwind backed it into a rock and it staggered. He slashed in a broad flat stroke, laying the beast’s belly open, and it fell forward to protect itself. It screamed, and Darkwind reversed the stick, hooking the beast’s mouth and tearing at the tongue and lips. It tried to buffet him with its wings, screaming as its eye and mouth dripped thick, brownish blood; he simply hooked the membrane of the wings and tore them, while he ducked under claw-strikes, or fended them off with the spike. Every time there was an opening, he darted in and stabbed again with the spike; he wasn’t yet doing the beast lethal damage, but he had to be causing it a lot of pain. It bled from a dozen wounds now, and Darkwind showed no signs of tiring.

Screams of bestial pain from across the court made her dare a glance in that direction. Hydona, bleeding, but still full of fight, stood defiantly between Falconsbane and her children. Her wings were at full spread, mantling over her young, every feather on end. Treyvan clung to the back of the other beast, trying to sever its spine, each strike succeeding in removing a foot-long strip of meat from its neck. The creature screamed and tried in vain to throw him off, leathery wings flailing. No matter the gryphon was half this beast’s size; he was going to win. Treyvan was astride the beast’s back even if it tried to roll, his claws gouging deep and holding fast with its every swift move, then moving upward as if he was walking up the thing’s back like it was a rock, driving deep holes in with every step, and taking a clump of meat with him at every opportunity. Elspeth swallowed in surprise; she had imagined what the gryphons’ fearsome natural weaponry could do, but actually seeing it was another matter.

Falconsbane seemed to be ignoring both the beasts, his attention fixed on the Shin’a’in. A moment later she knew why, as a flight of arrows sang toward him, only to be incinerated a few arm’s lengths away.

Another scream in her ear reminded her that there was equal danger, nearer at hand. Darkwind’s beast was holding its own against him now, and even regaining a little ground, its one good eye mad with rage and fixed on its target. Even if Treyvan won his contest, he could still lose if this beast killed Darkwind.

She acted with the thought; dropped one of her knives into her hand from its arm-sheath, aimed, and threw, as one of the beast’s lunges brought that good eye into range.

She swore, and dropped her second knife, as Darkwind slipped on blood-slick rock and fell.

The beast lunged with snapping jaws, managing to catch his leg in its teeth. He screamed and beat at the beast’s head with his stick, trying to pry the jaws apart, stabbing at the eye.

Suddenly calm, Elspeth waited dispassionately for her target to hold still a moment—and threw.

The creature let Darkwind go, throwing its head up and howling in agony—and instead of scrambling out of the way as Elspeth expected, Darkwind lunged upward with the pointed end of his staff, plunging it into newly revealed soft skin at the base of the thing’s throat, and leaning on it as hard as he could.

The creature clawed at the stick, at him, falling over sideways and emitting gurgling cries as he continued to lean into the point, thrashing and trying to dislodge it from its throat, all with no success. Darkwind’s eyes streamed tears of pain, and he sobbed under his breath, but he continued to drive the point deeper and deeper.

Across the stretch of scorched earth, Treyvan had clawed his way up his enemy’s back to the join of neck and spine. As Elspeth looked briefly away from Darkwind’s beast, Treyvan buried his beak in his foe’s neck, and jerked his head once. The beast collapsed beneath him.

Treyvan’s battle shriek of triumph was drowned in Falconsbane’s roar of rage.

Before anyone could move, the Adept howled again, his eyes black with hate, his hands rending the air as he clawed at it. Elspeth did not realize he was making a magical gesture until an oily green-brown smoke billowed up from the ground at his feet, filling the space between the ruined walls in an instant, completely obscuring everything that it rolled over.

Poison! That was her first, panic-stricken thought, as the cloud washed over her before she could scramble out of its path. There was a hum of dozens of bowstrings as the Shin’a’in loosed their arrows.

But though the thick, fetid smoke made her cough uncontrollably and brought tears to her eyes, it didn’t seem to be hurting her any. She reached out a tentative Mindtouch for Gwena.

:I’ll be all right,: came the weak reply. :Don’t move; the nomads are still shooting.:

And indeed, she heard bowstrings sing and the hiss of arrows nearby. But not a great deal else.

“As well as may be, lady,” he replied promptly, pain filling his voice. He coughed. “Stand fast, I am going to disperse this. I have enough power for that, at least.”

A moment later, a fresh wind cut through the fog, thinning it in heartbeats, blowing it away altogether as Elspeth took in deep, grateful breaths of clean air and knuckled her eyes until they stopped tearing.

She looked first for Falconsbane; he was no longer there, but where he had stood were dozens of arrows stuck point-first into the earth—and leading away from the place was a trail of blood.

That was all she had time to recognize; in the next moment, a surge of powerful energy somewhere nearby disoriented her for a moment. She might have written it off as a spasm of dizziness, had she not seen Darkwind’s face.

“He used the last of his energies to set a Gate-spell back to his stronghold,” the Hawkbrother said, bitterly. “Shaeka. He has escaped us.”

Tension still in the air knotted her guts like tangled yarn. And it wasn’t just Falconsbane, either. Something was going to happen. There was unfinished business here—but whose it was—she couldn’t tell.

The trail of blood ended in a little pool of sticky scarlet, directly in front of an archway in a ruined wall, or so said the Shin’a’in who had followed it to its end. There wasn’t any reason for them to lie, and although they did seem a bit too calm and detached for Elspeth’s liking, she assumed she could trust them. Darkwind apparently did. He made no effort to see for himself, but simply allowed the Vale Healer to continue working on him, although his lips moved with what Elspeth suspected were curses.

Elspeth swore under her breath herself as she tested Cymry’s legs for any more damage than simple bruises and sprains. Skif’s Companion was suffering mostly from shock; somehow between them, the Companion and Darkwind had managed to shield Skif and herself from the worst of Falconsbane’s blows. That was nothing short of a miracle.

Gwena’s talon-punctures had been treated, and would soon heal completely on their own. She was in pain, but it wasn’t as bad as it could be, and she said so.

Skif was in the hands of one of the Shin’a’in, the one who had introduced himself as the Tale’sedrin shaman, Kra’heera, and who had seemed oddly familiar to Elspeth. Skif had evidently suffered no worse than a cracked skull that would keep him abed until dizziness passed, and several broken ribs that would keep him out of the saddle for a while. He was unconscious, but not dangerously so. Nyara had satisfied herself on that score even before Elspeth and had taken a place by his side with Need in her hands. Since the blade’s Healing power was working on the cat-woman’s hurts, and might well aid Kra’heera’s efforts with Skif if Nyara managed to persuade the blade, Elspeth saw no reason to take it away from her.

She herself had gotten off lightly, with scratches and cuts; but Darkwind and Treyvan looked like badly butchered meat. When Hydona had flown limpingly into the Vale to fetch help, the Vale’s own Healer had timidly come out of protection to treat them and bandage them, then had scuttled back to safety like a frightened mouse. Elspeth didn’t think much of him; oh, his skills were quite excellent—but she didn’t think highly of any Healer who wouldn’t stay with his patients until he knew they were well. Darkwind saw her thinly veiled scorn, though, and he’d promised an explanation.

The Shin’a’in were still searching the ruins for Falconsbane, though Darkwind was certain that he was long gone out of reach, and Elspeth agreed with him.

Of them all, only the gryphons were happy, despite wounds and pain. Somehow Need had transmuted the power of Falconsbane’s magic into something that burned the little ones clean of his taint. Need might not think much of her own abilities, compared with Elspeth’s potential, but Darkwind was impressed. Transmuting was evidently a very rare ability. The adults had taken the young ones to the lair and curled up in there, refusing to budge unless it were direst emergency.

Beside her, Darkwind leaned back against the rock supporting him, and stared at the red-shouldered hawk perched above the door of the lair, her head up and into the wind, her wings slightly mantled. He looked haunted, somehow. As she studied his face, Elspeth thought she read pain and anxiety there, though it was hard to tell what the Hawkbrother was truly feeling.

But when he looked at Dawnfire, that was when the feeling of tension solidified.

It’s her. That’s what isn’t finished. She can’t stay the way she is—

She wrapped Cymry’s foreleg to add support, and looked over at the bird herself.

Dawnfire—what were they going to do about her? She was still trapped in the body of a bird.

The Shin’a’in were returning from their hunt by ones and twos, all of them gathering as if by prearrangement on the area below Dawnfire’s perch, all of them silent. They seemed in no hurry to leave, and Elspeth mostly ignored them in favor of the task at hand despite the growing tension in the air. Even if something was about to happen, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

As far as she could tell, all of the Shin’a’in had returned and now they were standing in a rough circle below Dawnfire. All but the shaman, that is; he had left Skif and now knelt beside Darkwind, with an odd expression as if he were waiting…

This is it. This is what I’ve been feeling—this is the cause of all the tension and pressure—

Were they glowing slightly, or was that only her imagination? There seemed to be a hazy dome of light covering them all.

Kra’heera grabbed Darkwind’s shoulders and physically restrained him from standing up, as the woman put up a hand to Dawnfire. The bird stared measuringly at her for a moment, then stepped down from her perch onto the proffered hand, and the woman turned to face the rest.

Like all the others, this one was clad entirely in black, from her long black hair to her black armor, to her tall black boots. But there was something wrong with her eyes… something odd.

Darkwind struggled in earnest against the shaman, but he was too weak to squirm out of Kra’heera’s hands. “Be silent, boy!” the shaman hissed at him as he continued to fight. “Have you any life to offer her? Would you watch her fade before your eyes until there is nothing left of her?”

Elspeth paid scant attention to them, concentrating instead on the black-clad woman who had taken Dawnfire. There was something very unusual about her—a feeling of contained power. Elspeth Felt the stirring of a kind of deeply running energy she had never experienced before, and found herself holding her breath.

The woman raised Dawnfire high above her head and held her there, a position that must have been a torment after a few moments, and as she did so, the entire group started to hum.

Softly, then increasing slowly in volume, until the ruins rang with the harmonics—and Dawnfire began to glow.

At first Elspeth thought it was just a trick of the setting sun, touching the bird’s feathers and making them seem to give off their own light. But then, the light grew brighter instead of darker, and Dawnfire straightened and spread her wings—and began to grow larger as well as brighter.

Within heartbeats, Elspeth couldn’t even look at her directly. In a few moments more, she was averting her face, though Darkwind continued to stare, squinting, into the light, a look of desperation on his face. The light from the bird’s outstretched wings was bright enough to cast shadows, the black-clad Shin’a’in seeming to be shadows themselves, until the bird appeared to be ruling over a host of shades.

The Shin’a’in shaman caught her staring at him. He met her eyes, then returned to gaze fearlessly into the light, and seemed to sense her questions. “Dawnfire has been chosen by the Warrior,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Oh, thanks. Now of course I understand. I understand why a hawk is flaming brighter than any firebird; I understand why Darkwind looks as if he’s at an execution. What in Havens is going on?

Gwena looked at her as if the Companion had read those thoughts. :It’s business,: she said shortly, :And not ours.:

Darkwind’s eyes streamed tears, and she longed to comfort him, but she sensed she dared not; not at this moment, anyway.

The light was dying now, along with the humming, as she looked back toward the circle of Shin’a’in.

The bird on the female fighter’s fist was no longer a red-shouldered hawk; it was a vorcel-hawk, the emblem of the Shin’a’in Clan Tale’sedrin, and the largest such bird Elspeth had ever seen. The light had dimmed in the bird’s feathers, but it had not entirely died, and there was an other-worldly quality about the hawk’s eyes that made her start with surprise.

Then she recognized it; the same look as the female fighter’s. There were neither whites nor pupils to the woman’s eyes, nor to the bird’s—only a darkness, sprinkled with sparks of light, as if, rather than eyes, Elspeth looked upon fields of stars.

That was when she remembered where she had heard of such a thing. The Chronicles—Roald’s description of the Shin’a’in Goddess.

Her mouth dried in an instant, and her heart pounded. If she was right—this was a Goddess—

And at that moment, she found she couldn’t move. She was frozen in place, as a string of bridleless black horses filed into the clear area, led by no one, each going to a Shin’a’in and waiting.

The Shin’a’in mounted up, quite literally as one, and rode out in single file; the woman and the hawk last, heading for the path that wound around the ruins and led down into the Plains. Those two paused for just a moment, black silhouettes against the red-gold sky, sunlight streaming around them, as they looked back.

Darkwind uttered an inarticulate moan. It might have been Dawnfire’s name; it might not.

Sunset did not bring darkness; Darkwind and Treyvan used their magecraft to kindle a couple of mage-lights apiece, and they all crowded into the lair. Right now, no one wanted to face the night shadows.

Darkwind looks as if he’s lost. Not that I blame him. He and Dawnfire were… were close. Whatever happened to her, I have the feeling she’s pretty well gone from his life.

“Where’s Nyara?” Skif said, struggling to sit up, the bandage around his head obscuring one eye.

“Right there.” Elspeth glanced at the niche among the stones by the door that Nyara had been occupying since the fight, Need on her lap, only to find her gone. And she didn’t recall seeing the girl move.

Darkwind glanced up at the same time, on hearing Skif’s voice; their eyes met across Nyara’s now-empty resting place.

:What do you mean, your sword?: Need’s mind-voice asked testily, the quality hollow and thin, as if crossing a bit of distance. Elspeth had started to get to her feet; she froze at the touch of the mind-voice, and a glance at Darkwind showed he had heard it, too.

:I’m not your sword, Elspeth, I’m not anybody’s sword. I go to whom I choose. And frankly, child, you don’t require my services anymore. You’re a fine fighter; a natural, in fact. You’re going to be a better mage than I am. And you are ridiculously healthy in mind and body. Nyara, on the other hand…: A feeling of pity crept into the sword’s tone. :Let’s just say she’s a challenge to any Healer. And if she’s not going to fall back into her father’s hands, I figured I’d better take an interest in her. She needs me more than you ever would.:

The mind-voice began to fade. :Fare well, child. We’ll see you again, I think.:

Elspeth stared at Darkwind with a mingled feeling of relief and annoyance. At least this meant there was one less thing to fight, but she’d gotten used to having the blade around to depend on.

I’d gotten used to it—well, maybe she was right. If what she told us was the truth, she never let anyone depend on her powers.

“Do you think the artifact will be strong enough to keep Nyara out of his hands?” Darkwind asked, worriedly.

Elspeth shrugged. “I don’t know. She was strong enough to turn Falconsbane’s spell against him.”

Darkwind nodded, slowly; his face was in shadow so that Elspeth could not read it, but she had the feeling he was somehow at war within himself. As if he was both relieved that Nyara was gone, and regretting the fact.

Then he moved a little, and the cold light showed a look of such naked loss and loneliness that Elspeth looked away, unable to bear it.

She turned to Skif instead, who was still trying to sit up. “Nyara,” he said fretfully, squinting at her. He was doubtless experiencing double vision, and a headache bad enough to wish he were dead. “Where’s Nyara? Is she all right?”

“Need’s taking care of her,” Elspeth told him, giving him the bare truth. “She’s fine.”

Satisfied, he stopped trying to fight his way into a sitting position, and permitted her to feed him one of the herbal painkillers she had picked up in Kata’shin’a’in. Shortly after that, he was snoring; and she looked up to find Darkwind gone as well, taking his thoughts and his pain into the night. She hugged her knees to her chest and waited for a while, but he did not return. Finally she went to bed, where she lay for a long time, listening to Skif’s drug-induced snores and the young gryphlets making baby noises in the next room.

Darkwind returned to the gryphon’s lair late the next morning; it had been a long night for him, as well, and it had ended with a morning session of the Council of Elders.

He had found himself in the odd position of Council Leader; he was not certain he liked it. Virtually anything he thought to be a good idea would be adopted at this point, when his credit was so high with the rest of the Elders, but how was he to know whether what he wanted was going to be good for the rest of the Vale?

But he wanted them to stay. Although he was tired, heartsore, and uncertain of many things, of that much he was sure.

He found the young woman outside the lair, taking advantage of a cool breeze and a chance, at last, to rest in the open without fear of attack. She rose on seeing him, and he made idle talk for a moment before finally coming to the subject.

“Falconsbane is gone; perhaps for good. Your sword is no longer with you. I can and will direct you to a teacher among the Vales, and k’Sheyna is not likely to be a comfortable place to live for a while. So what is it you would do now?” he asked, refusing to meet Elspeth’s eyes. “There is no need for you to stay.”

She set her chin stubbornly. “You promised to teach me magic; are you going back on that promise?”

“No,” he replied slowly. Is this wise? Perhaps not—but I am weary of being wise. “But—”

“Does the Council want us to leave?” She looked very unhappy at that idea; he rubbed his hand across his tired eyes. Was it only because she thought there would be opposition that she would have to fight without an advocate if she went to another Vale?

“No, not at all,” he said wearily. “No—it is—I thought perhaps you and Skif—”

“Skif isn’t going to leave here unless you force him to,” she told him bluntly. “It’s that simple. He can’t travel any time soon, and after that—” She shrugged. “He may go home, he may decide to stay, that’s up to him. Nyara’s out there somewhere; he may decide to try to find her, and personally, I think he will. But I plan on staying, if you’re still willing to teach me.”

“I am,” he replied soberly, “But I must warn you that I have never taught before. And you are a dangerous kind of pupil; you come late to this, and you wield a great deal of power, very clumsily.”

She bristled a little. “I haven’t exactly had a chance to practice,” she retorted. “I don’t think you’ll find me unwilling to work, or too inflexible to learn.”

“I, too, will be a kind of pupil,” he reminded her. “I have not used my powers in a long time; I shall have to relearn them before I can teach you.”

But it is easier for two than one. And my friends are few enough. Elspeth has become one.

She shrugged. “If you don’t care, I don’t. What I do care about is that you can teach me as quickly as I can learn. I don’t have a lot of time to spend here.”

Dark thoughts shadowed her face; he guessed they were thoughts of home, and all that could be taking place there. He softened a little, understanding those worries only too well. “If you will give me your best, I will give you mine,” he replied.

He glanced at the slumbering Skif out of the corner of his eye. “Not even to him?” he asked, a little cruelly, but unable to help himself. You must know yourself, strengths and weaknesses, before you dare magic.

“I gave Skif my best,” she replied instantly, without a wince. “It just wasn’t what he thought he wanted. He’s still my friend.”

He nodded, satisfied, and rose, holding out his hand to her. “In that case, lady, gather your things again.”

This time she did wince. “Why? Did you change your mind just now about throwing us out?” She sounded a little desperate.

“No.” He stared at the forest for a moment, wondering again if he was doing the right thing.

But he was doing something, and his heart told him it was right. And that was infinitely better than doing nothing.

“No… no, Elspeth,” he replied after a moment, tasting the flavor of the strange name, and finding he liked it. “I have not changed my mind. As soon as you are ready, I will have Skif brought to the Vale, and conduct you there myself.” He turned toward her and found himself smiling at the look of complete surprise she wore. “You have succeeded in winning a place where no Outlander has been for generations.”

He clasped her forearm in his hand, searching in her eyes for a moment… then speaking to her softly.

“As Council Leader of Vale k’Sheyna, I offer you the sanctuary and peace of the Vale; I offer you the honor and responsibility of the Clan. If you will take it, I give you the name Elspeth k’Sheyna k’Valdemar…”

Somewhere overhead, a forestgyre called his approval as he rode the winds, watching over the forest; for Vree’s bondmate had begun his healing at last.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Just as the Companions are not horses as we know them, so the Tayledras bondbirds are not hawks and falcons. They have been genetically altered to make them larger, more intelligent, telepathic, and far more social than any terrestrial bird of prey. The “real thing” bears the same resemblance to a bondbird as a German Shepherd does to a jackal.

The ancient art of falconry can be thrilling and enjoyable, but the falconer must be prepared to devote as much or more time to it as he would his job. The birds must be fed, trained, and exercised every day without fail, and frequently will not permit anyone but their handler to feed them. For the most part, the falconer must make all his own equipment. And in order to obtain the licenses for his sport, he must pass a lengthy Federal examination, and the facilities for his bird must pass a Federal inspection. The licenses themselves must be obtained from both the Federal and State governments. All native birds are protected species, and possession without a permit is subject to a Federal fine as well as confiscation of the bird. The Apprentice falconer is only permitted to train and fly the red-tailed hawk or the kestrel (North American sparrowhawk), and must do so under the auspices of a Master. This is not a hobby to be taken on lightly, nor is it one that can be put in a closet on a rainy day, or if the falconer doesn’t feel well that day. For the most part, birds of prey are not capable of “affection” for their handler, and the best one can expect is tolerance and acceptance. Falconers speak of “serving” their bird, and that is very much the case, for this is a partnership in which the bird has the upper hand, and can choose at any moment to dissolve the relationship and fly away. And frequently, she does just that.

Falconers are single-handedly responsible for keeping the population of North American peregrine falcons alive. They were the first to notice the declining numbers, the first to make the connection between DDT and too-fragile eggshells, and the first to begin captive breeding programs to save the breed from extinction. They are intensely involved in conservation at all levels, and are vitally interested in preserving the wilderness for all future generations.

24

25

AUTHOR’S NOTE