Trevalen closed his eyes and narrowed his consciousness, pulling his concentration within himself until he was aware of nothing but himself. A moment only, he paused, finding his balance and center, and from deep within—he stepped out. Onto the Moonpaths, into the spirit realms.
By virtue of their close bond with the StarEyed, any Shin’a’in could walk the Moonpaths; provided that it was at night, under the full moon, and he sought the place with unselfish intent and enough concentration. Any Swordsworn could walk the Moonpaths on any night, and call and be answered by the leshy’a Kal’enedral, the spirit-warriors sworn to the martial aspect of the Goddess.
A shaman could walk the Moonpaths into the spirit world at any time he chose, and call and be answered by any spirit that lingered there, if the spirit he sought was willing…
That knowledge brought no comfort, only doubt and trepidation. And that is the question, indeed. Is Dawnfire willing?
Dawnfire. Of Tale’edras, but called by the Shin’a’in Aspect of the Goddess, to serve in a form a Shin’a’in would recognize—the emblem of one of the four First Clans. He had called and spoken with her on several occasions now, but each time he called, it was with questioning and fear deep in his heart. Fear that this time she would not answer.
Questioning his own motives.
Kra’heera had ordered him to remain at k’Sheyna Vale to learn the Star-Eyed’s motive and purpose in creating a Shin’a’in Avatar out of one of the Hawkbrothers. Never had She created an Avatar before, much less one from a child of the Sundered Kin, the magic-users. If Kra’heera had speculations, he kept them to himself. Tre’valen had no guesses at all.
He had learned nothing of Her motivation in all the time he had dwelt here. He had, however, learned far too much of his own heart, a heart that ached with loss, and yearned for one that he could not touch. Ironic that he should discover the love of his life and his soulmate only after she was—technically at least—dead. But was that not like the Goddess, to create such ironies for Her shamans?
Keep to the journey, traveler. The Moonpaths are peril enough without your wandering off them. He walked the Moonpaths, dream-hunting in the spirit world; keeping safely on the trails meant for the living, and sending his call out into the golden mist beyond where lingering spirits lived. Golden mist, for he hunted by daylight; at night, the mist would be silver. This was not wearisome for a shaman, though one who was not so trained returned to his body weary and drained if he dared to venture here. And as a shaman, he knew that time meant very little in this realm, so he walked onward with patience, waiting for the sign that would tell him that Dawnfire was coming—or not.
One moment he was alone; then she was there, before him, in her hawk-form, hovering above the pathway on sun-bright wings. A great vorcel-hawk, glowing with a fierce inner light, so full of energy that the mist about her crackled.
But this time, instead of coming to rest upon the path as she always had before, she spoke one word into his mind.
:Follow.:
Then she was gone, diving out of the spirit realm with speed he could not match—but leaving behind a glowing trail that he followed back, back, back to his body, to the material world. He sank into himself; feeling crept back to arms and legs, he put on the shell of himself as a comfortable garment.
He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes to find the hawk that was Dawnfire poised before him. She watched him; before he could blink his eyes twice, the hawk shimmered, a trembling like a heat haze passing over her, intensifying the glow of her inner fire. Soon she glowed like a tiny sun, as she had when she first transformed.
He looked away for a moment, his eyes watering with the brightness. When he looked back, the hawk no longer perched there.
In its place was the transparent and radiant form of the woman. He had never seen her this way in the real world, only in the spirit realm. A woman made of glowing, liquid glass…
He took a deep breath of surprise, as she examined her hands and a smile crossed her lips. He rose from his cross-legged pose, and approached her; not certain that he should, but unable to keep at a distance. “I was not certain that I could do this, though my teachers assured me it is no great accomplishment for me now,” she said, a little shyly. “I was never a mage; I am not really certain how I accomplish the half of what I do.”
This was true speech, and not the stumbling, mind-to-mind talk he had gotten from her aforetimes. He willed his hands to still their trembling and nodded. “I think I can understand how you feel,” he replied. “We are not mages, either, we Shin’a’in. That, we leave to Her.”
She dropped her eyes from his hungry gaze. “I wanted—I wished to be with you, in as real a way as I could,” she said, slowly. Then she looked up, and there was no mistaking the expression she wore, even though her “face” was little more than air and power. It showed a hunger and a desperation as great as his own. “I am not dead. I’m just different, and I wanted to be like I was, for a while.”
He had never wanted anything more in his life than to take her hand; he reached for her, shaking a little, stretching one hand across more than a gulf of physical distance—
And she reached toward him.
Their hands met—one of solid flesh, one of ephemeral energy. He felt a gentle pressure, warmth—and it was enough, almost. So, they could touch, for just a moment, letting touch and eyes say what words could not.
He withdrew first; she brought her own hand back and set her face in a mask of calm, although longing still stood nakedly in her eyes.
He did not know what to say to her. “I am not only here with you for my own sake,” she said after a moment of strained silence. “I am here—my teachers tell me that I must speak with you, telling you what I have learned because I can see things anew, being what I am now. Things they did not know, and could not see. Maybe that is why I became what I am—not quite in the spirit world and not quite in the material world.”
He nodded and set his own feelings aside; this was the first time she had said anything like this, the first time that she had given any hint of what Kra’heera wanted to know. Not that he had not asked her questions, for he had. Until now she had shown great distress when he had asked her those questions about her current state, so he had stopped asking them. He feared she might stop coming to him; he was afraid he might have frightened her with all his queries.
Apparently not. But then, she was a brave woman, and I do not think that she has ever run from what frightened her.
“When you started asking me questions—I didn’t want to think about them, but I had to anyway,” she told him slowly. “Like this, there is no sleep, no dreams to run to. Once I started thinking, I started asking questions myself…”
She stared off somewhere above his head for a moment, and he held his breath, as much to try and still the pain in his heart as in anticipation of what she might say next. She could say she had to go, leave him forever, for the Goddess willed it so.
This was far from easy for him. He had dreamed of this woman for years, ever since becoming a man. Since he had been initiated as a shaman, the dreams had more power. He had known in the way of the shaman even then that this woman was his soul-partner, and yet he had never seen her. When Kra’heera had asked him to stay and learn of her, he had thought no more of it than any task the Elder Shaman had set him.
Until she had first come to him on the Moonpaths, this Dawnfire, this transformed Tale’edras. Until he had seen her face, and not the hawk-mask of the Avatar.
Now he knew who and what she was, and after the initial joy of discovery, the knowledge was a burden and an agony to his soul, for she was untouchable—out of reach—not truly dead, but assuredly not “alive” in the conventional sense. There was no way in which she could become the partner his dreams had painted her as. How could his dreams, the dreams of a shaman, which were supposed to be accurate to within a hair, have been so very wrong?
“There are threats and changes on the winds,” she said, finally, bringing his attention back to something besides his own pain. “Terrible changes, some of them—or they have the potential to bring terror, if they are not met and mastered. One is a lost man of your own people, whom we have faced once already. No Shin’a’in, no Tayledras, no Outlander has the answer to these changes, only pieces of the answers.”
He groped after the answers that her words implied. “Are you saying that the time for isolation to end is at hand?” That in itself was a frightening thought, and a change few Shin’a’in would care for.
“In part.” She did not breathe, so she could not sigh, but he had the impression that she did. “It is easy for me to see, but hard to describe. All peoples face a grave threat from the same source, but three stand to lose the most; the Shin’a’in—”
“For what we guard,” he completed. That was a truism, and always had been.
She nodded emphatically. “Yes. The Tayledras, also, for what we know—and the Outlanders of Valdemar, for what they are. And somehow those threats are as woven together as the lives of the Outlanders and the Sundered Kin have become in these last few days.” She shook her head in frustration. “I cannot show you, and I do not have the words that I need; that is the closest that I can come.”
But Tre’valen understood; what she said only crystalized things he had half-felt for some time now. “This is no accident, no coincidence, that things have fallen out as they have,” he said firmly.
“It is less even than you guess,” she responded immediately. And that confirmed another half-formed guess—that it had been the careful hands of the gods that had worked to bring them all here together. Him—and the Outlanders. “This path that we are all on was begun farther back than even our enemies know. I can see it stretching back to the time of the Mage Wars. There were cataclysms then that are only now echoing back to us.”
A cold hand of fear gripped his throat at that, driving out other thoughts. “What do you mean?” he asked, carefully.
She searched visibly for words, her gaze unfocused as though she were watching something that she meant to describe for him, like a sighted woman describing the stars to a blind man. “Neither Urtho nor his enemy were truly aware of what they unleashed upon the world. It is as if what they did has created a real echo, except that this echo, rather than being fainter than the original catastrophe, has lost none of its strength as it moved across time and the face of the world. And now—it returns, it sweeps across our world back to its origin.”
“But what has this to do with us?” Tre’valen cried. “Those were mages of awesome power—what has this to do with us and what we can do? Surely we cannot counter their magics! It is all we can do to hold them away from those who would use them!”
She shook her head dumbly, at a complete loss for an answer. “I can only tell you what I see,” she replied, slowly, unhappily. “You asked me of the past and present, and this is what I see. The future is closed to me.”
He was at as much of a loss as she, and slowly lowered himself to a stone within arm’s reach of her translucent form.
They sat together for a long and painful moment, as he tried to think of words to give her; something with a bit of meaning to it.
“This, I think, must be what Kra’heera sensed when he charged me with remaining here,” he said, finally. “He is my senior in much. Perhaps he can give us an answer; perhaps Kethra can, or one of your own people. I shall speak with Kethra and my teachers; I shall relay this to the Kal’enedral…”
“When you do this, speak of the need to speak to one another, Hawkbrothers, Shin’a’in, and Outlanders all,” she said, interrupting him. “That much I do see. There has been overmuch of sundering, of the keeping of secrets. It is time for some of this to end.”
“Secrets…” He looked up at her, and he knew that longing and pain were plain upon his face, plain enough that any child would see and know them and the cause.
“I must go,” she said abruptly; she did not “stand up” so much as gather her energies about her and rise. Her form began to fluctuate and waver, and he held back frustration that she was so near, and yet untouchable except for a moment or two. Despite all that she had told him, his heart cried out for her—his own pain eclipsing the importance of her words.
She turned toward him; held out her hand. “I—” she said falteringly. He had not expected to hear her speak again, and the sound of her voice made him start in surprise.
She was in a kind of intermediate form; womanly, with her human face, but a suggestion of great wings. Again, the power in her made her difficult to look at as she wore the glory of the noon sun on her like a garment, but he would not look away, though his eyes streamed tears.
“I have seen your true heart, and I see your pain, Tre’valen,” she said. “I—I share it. Beloved.”
Then she was gone, leaving him with a heart torn in pieces, and a mind and soul gone numb.
* * *
Darkwind waited for his brother at the edge of the Vale, packs in his hand, and shivered as he looked out on the snow. He was not hardened to this weather, not as he would have been at this time last winter. Then he had sheltered outside the protection of the Vale, and most time not spent in sleeping had been spent in the snow.
He had not gone back to his old ekele except to gather his things and bring them back to the Vale with the help of several friends. He had been one of the first to do so, but now that the Vale no longer troubled the bondbirds, most of the scouts had followed his example and returned to the shelter and safety of the rocky walls and enclosing shields. Probably even Wintermoon would join them when his search was over. Darkwind’s brother was stubborn but not foolish.
Shelter and safety the Vales held indeed—and comfort, which was something only someone who had never been without comfort scorned. This was going to be a hard winter; it had begun that way, and all signs pointed to the weather worsening before spring. The Vale was warm, with hertasi to take care of everyday tasks… difficult to resist such comforts, when the winter winds howled around one’s windows and drafts seeped in at every seam. Especially when the ekeles of those within the Vale needed no protections from the cold; when hot springs waited to soak away aches and bruises, when windows could stand open to the breeze—
Well, they could if one lived on a lower level, at any rate. The ekeles near the tops of the trees tended to find themselves whipped by wilder winds than those near the ground. He smiled through his shivers at recalling when Nightsky had left her windows ajar—and came back after a lesson to find belongings strewn about the room. She had learned quickly that it was as well to leave the windows closed.
Few lived in those upper levels, in k’Sheyna. With the population so reduced, there was little competition for dwellings nearer the Vale floor. One or two still preferred heights, but never scouts. After returning from a long day on patrol the very last thing anyone cared to do was to climb a ladder for several stories just to get home to rest.
Darkwind was no different in that respect from any of the rest of the scouts, once the general consensus was reached that a move back to the Vale would be a good thing for all. He had stayed with his father for a brief while, in part to help Kethra at night, then moved into an ekele in the lowest branches. His tree stood near the waterfall end of the Vale, so that both the cool water of the waterfall pools and a nearby hot spring were available. He ran his patrols with Elspeth and her Companion as he had since the coming of autumn, but now he returned with gratitude to the warmth and the comfort of the Vale. And he pitied Wintermoon for his self-chosen exile to the winter-bound forest.
On the other hand, we can’t seem to track down Nyara from within the Vale. I’ve tried looking for her, but she—or that sword—have shielded themselves too well to spot. I am glad it isn’t me out there.
K’Tathi had flown in just before he and Elspeth went out on patrol, carrying a message; a written one, since it was fairly complicated. Wintermoon and Skif had given a good portion of food to a tervardi temporarily disabled by an encounter with Changelions. Rather than lose any great amount of time, Wintermoon was leaving Skif with the bird-man, and coming in to fetch replacements and enough food over to keep the tervardi fed while he healed. So would Darkwind be so good as to put together thus-and-so, and meet him and his dyheli friends at the mouth of the Vale at sunset?
Darkwind not only would, he was glad to. It often seemed to him that there was never a great deal he could do for Wintermoon; he and his brother had very little in common, and Wintermoon’s position as elder often led to him being the one to lend aid to the younger brother. Wintermoon seldom asked favors of anyone; he was as much a bachelor falcon as Darkwind, if not more so.
With that in mind, Darkwind went out of his way to root through some of the old storehouses and uncover the last few cold-lights, mage-cloaks, and a fireless stove left from the days when mages in k’Sheyna could lend their powers to making aids to the scouts. It had been a very long time since scouts of k’Sheyna made overnight patrols—and a very long time since any of them had been willing to use mage-made things, for fear that the creatures of the Uncleansed Lands might sense them. He thought that Skif and Wintermoon might well be willing to chance that, since they were between k’Sheyna and the Cleansed Outland. The cloaks kept the wearer warm and dry; there were five, enough for both humans and the Companion and dyheli to sleep beneath. The stove should be good for several weeks of use, or so his testing had confirmed—and should heat the tiny tent his brother and the Outlander shared quite cozily.
When he asked for permission to take the things, Iceshadow had queried with a lifted eyebrow whether they needed it—or were keeping warm some other way. He had answered the same way that the notion was wildly unlikely. He still was not certain about Outlander prejudices in that regard, but he knew his brother well enough to be certain that young Skif was not likely to become Wintermoon’s bedmate unless they encountered some wild magic on the borders that wrought a complete change of sex in either of them.
The last gray light of afternoon faded and died away, creeping from the forest by imperceptible degrees, and deepening the shadows beneath the trees. He shivered in a breath of cold air that crept across the Veil and hoped that Wintermoon would arrive soon. It had been a very long day, and he was bone weary. He and Elspeth had tracked and driven off a pair of Changelions—perhaps even the same ones that injured that tervardi, in fact—and it had not been an easy task in knee-deep snow. Even Elspeth’s Companion had been of little help, not with the snow so deep and soft. The cats, with their snowshoelike paws, had a definite advantage in weather like this.
It had been snow with ice beneath; they had slipped and slid so often that he reckoned they were both black and blue in a fair number of places. He wanted to get back to his ekele, to the hot pool beneath it. He thought, briefly, about seeking one of the other scouts for company, then dismissed the idea. There were several women of k’Sheyna who were friends, willing and attractive, but none of them were Elspeth…
Stupid. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t complicate matters. She’s your friend, sometimes your student; be wise enough to leave it at that. You aren’t living a romance-tale, you have work enough and more to do.
Still—she was a competent partner now as well; he felt more confident in his magic, and so did she. As a team, they were efficient and effective. Working with the gryphons had been a stroke of genius.
A white shape flickered through the branches ahead, ghosting just under the branches in silence; a breath of snow-fog, with a twin coming in right behind it.
Vree cried a greeting; not the challenge scream, but the whistling call no outsider ever heard. A long, deep Hooo, hoo-hooo, answered him, and one of the two owls swooped up across the Veil and onto a branch just above Darkwind’s head.
The second followed his brother, and as he flew up to land above, Darkwind made out the distant figure of someone riding through the barren bushes and charcoal-gray tree trunks of the unprotected forest.
The dyheli waded through the soft snow easily, his thin legs having no trouble with drifts a man would be caught in, his sharp, cleft hooves cutting footholds in the ice beneath. Astride him was Wintermoon. Behind the first dyheli came the second, unladen, his breath puffing frostily out of his nostrils.
Wintermoon waved as soon as he saw Darkwind, grinning broadly. Since he was not normally given to such things as broad grins, Darkwind was a bit surprised.
Being with that Outlander has done him some good, then. Loosened him up.
It occurred to him that Wintermoon might have found himself a real friend—rarer still, a close friend—in the Outlander Herald. Could it be mutual? Perhaps they had learned that they had a lot in common; Skif had struck him as rather a loner himself. A close friend was something, so far as Darkwind knew, his brother had never had before.
About time, too.
Wintermoon and the dyheli crossed the Veil and the scout slid from the dyheli’s back to land beside his brother. “Darkwind!” he said, obviously pleased. “Thank you for doing this yourself, and thank you for fetching the supplies for me at all. What’s all this?” Wintermoon briefly embraced his brother and indicated “this” with a toe to one of the extra bundles. “I did not ask you for nearly so much.”
“And it doesn’t look like provisions, I know.” Briefly, Darkwind told his brother what he had put together for the little expedition.
Wintermoon frowned at that. “I don’t know. I hesitate to use anything magic made out there.”
“I’ve shielded it as best I can,” Darkwind pointed out. “We have been using magic without attracting trouble for many weeks now. And if I were the one doing the scouting, I would weight the benefits of warmth and light very heavily in any decisions I made. Winter is only just upon us, and already it has the Vale locked around with ice and snow. It will be worse out there.”
“It already is worse.” Wintermoon eyed the bundle dubiously, but then heaved it onto his mount’s back. “You were the first of us to object to using magic on the border; if you say it is probably worth the risk, I will believe you. I have very little to return you for your gift, I am afraid.”
“No sign of Nyara?” Darkwind asked, expecting a negative.
“Very little sign, and old,” Wintermoon replied, as he helped his brother tie the bundles securely to the dyheli backs. “But there are things that tell me she passed the way we are going. I have some hope that we will find her, though I have not told this to Skif, for I do not wish to raise his hopes with nothing more substantial than old sign. It is a difficult secret to keep, though.”
“That is probably wise,” Darkwind said carefully, balancing the first dyheli’s load.
His brother looked up at him from the other side of the stag’s back. “He is a man who has had many disappointments,” the scout said suddenly. “I would not add to them, if I can avoid it. He is Wingsib; more than that, he does not deserve it.”
“We seldom deserve disappointment,” Darkwind observed dryly. “But I do agree with you.”
He fastened the last of the bundles to the second dyheli, and straightened from tightening the cinch. “If you are worried about losing time and need someone to meet you with supplies, send K’Tathi again,” he said. “It’s no trouble, and perhaps I can find you something else useful, rummaging around in the old stores.”
“You might indeed, and thank you.” Wintermoon peered out into the growing darkness beyond the Veil. “I had best get on the trail; it will take some time getting back with all these supplies.”
Darkwind nodded, and Wintermoon mounted the second stag, so that the work of bearing him could be shared between the two. With a wave of farewell, Wintermoon urged his mount and its brother out of the Vale and into the night, vanishing into the darkness beneath the trees, followed by two silver shadows, ghosting out and above.
Darkwind turned his own face back toward the Vale, figuring to find some dinner, soak himself in hot water, and go to bed. A headache was coming on, and he assumed it was from fatigue. It had been a very long day. Bed, even one with no one in it but himself, had never seemed so welcome.
So when he passed his father’s ekele and saw the Council of Elders, even old Rainlance, huddled in conference with most of the mages of k’Sheyna, including Elspeth, he was tempted to retrace his steps before anyone saw him. Such a gathering could only mean trouble. Surely he had done enough for one day. Surely he deserved a rest.
But—
Damn. This looks important. I can do without food and sleep a little longer. I’ve done it before.
The mage-lights above them were few and dim, and if he had gone another way, they would never have known he was there, now that the shadows of night had descended. Elspeth was the first to spot him, but as soon as the rest realized she was looking at someone and not staring off into the darkness, they glanced his way. Their glances sharpened as soon as their eyes fell on him, and with a resigned sigh, he joined them.
I guess I was right. It is important.
The very first thing he noticed, once he joined their circle, was that they were all, barring the few scouts among them, drained and demoralized. They slumped in postures of exhaustion, faces pale and lined with pain, white hair lying lank against their shoulders.
All? There was only one thing that would affect them all.
“The Heartstone,” he said flatly. Iceshadow nodded, and licked dry lips.
“The Heartstone,” the Elder replied in agreement. He passed his hand over his eyes for a moment. “Precisely. We have failed in our attempt to stabilize it. And there will be no more such attempts.”
“The spell not only did not drain the Stone,” one of the others whispered wearily, “it enabled the Stone to drain us. We will be days, perhaps even a week, in recovering.”
So that’s why Iceshadow said there would be no more tries… if it could do that once, it will do so again. Thank the gods that the mages worked within shields, or we would likely all be in the same condition.
“K’Sheyna will not be defenseless, thanks to good planning,” Iceshadow sighed. “The mages that are also scouts were not involved in the spellcasting, nor you and Wingsister Elspeth. But it is only thanks to that caution that we still have magical defenders.”
There was one face missing from the group, one who should have been there. “My father?” he asked sharply.
Iceshadow winced. “A side effect we had not reckoned on,” he replied, averting his eyes from Darkwind’s. “Starblade’s life is bound to the Stone in some way that we do not understand and did not sense until too late. When our spell backlashed, it struck him as well.”
Darkwind tensed. “What happened to him?”
Iceshadow said nothing. Rainlance spoke softly. “It nearly killed him, despite the shaman Kethra throwing herself into the link to protect him.”
“He lives, and he will recover,” someone else said hastily, as he felt blood drain from his face. “But he and the Healer are weak and in shock. The shaman, Tre’valen, is tending them.”
They are in the best hands in the Vale. If I have regained him only to lose him— “Is this a Council meeting, then?” he asked, keeping back all the bitter things he wanted to say. They were of no use, anyway. How could anyone have known the deep plans that had been laid against them, all the things that had been done to Starblade? They severed his links to Mornelithe Falconsbane, but there had been no reason to look for any others. Even gone, Falconsbane’s influence lies heavily upon us. Even gone, he left behind his poison in our veins.
“A meeting of the Council and of all the mages,” Iceshadow replied. “We have determined that we have tried every means to neutralize the Heartstone at our disposal, and all have failed. There is no other way. We must look outside, to other Clans, for help.”
The faces in the dim light showed how they felt about it; that it was an admission of dependence, of guilt, of failure. Darkwind had urged them all for years to seek help from outside, and swallow that pride. Bitter and sweet; victory at last was his, but it had nearly cost the life of his father. Caught between two conflicting sets of emotions, he could only stare at the leader of the Council.
“You must send the call,” Iceshadow said, finally. “You, the Wingsister, and the gryphons. Elspeth has already agreed, as have Treyvan and Hydona. You are the only ones that we can turn to now, you and Elspeth. You remember the way of constructing a seeking-spell strong enough to reach who and what we need.”
He nodded numbly, still caught in a web of surprise and dismay.
“You look ready to drop,” Elspeth said firmly into the silence. “You’re tired—I’m tired—we aren’t going to get anything done tonight.” She stood up and nodded to Iceshadow. “With respect, Elder, we have had a long day, and we need to rest. We’ll see what we can do tomorrow.”
“It has waited until now, it can certainly wait another night,” Iceshadow agreed wearily. “And there is no sense in exhausting you two as well. Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” she agreed, and signaled Darkwind to follow her down the path.
“I had the hertasi bring food and that mineral drink to the pool near your treehouse,” she said as soon as they were out of sight and sound of the circle of exhausted mages. “I thought you would probably need both. And a good soak.”
“You were right.” He rubbed his temple, as a headache began to throb behind his eyes. “When did all this happen?”
“Just at sunset,” she told him. “That was when they had timed the drainage to begin, and that was when the spell backlashed. I didn’t feel it, and neither did anyone else outside of the Working area except Starblade; I first knew something was wrong when two of them staggered out the pass-through looking for help, and I happened to be nearby. Some of them had to be carried out.”
“Gods.” He shook his head. “So there are only four of us to work this seeking-spell.”
:Five,: corrected a voice in his head.
He had not noticed Gwena’s presence until that moment; she moved so quietly behind them that she might have been just another shadow. “Five?” he repeated. “But, lady, I did not know you were Mage-Gifted.”
Elspeth’s glare could have peeled bark from the trees.
“Neither did I,” she said flatly, her voice so devoid of expression that the lack alone was a sign of her anger. She stopped; so did he and the Companion.
Before Gwena could jerk her head away, Elspeth had her by the bottom of the hackamore. “Look,” she said tightly, “you know how important strategy is. That, and tactics. Especially here and now.”
Gwena tried to look away; Elspeth wouldn’t let her. :Yes,: she agreed faintly.
“You have been withholding information,” Elspeth continued, her voice still dangerously flat and calm. “Information that I—we need to have to plan intelligently. What would you do to someone who had deliberately withheld information that vital?”
Gwena shook her head slightly, as much as Elspeth’s hold on her hackamore would permit.
“I. Have. Had. Enough.” Elspeth punctuated each word with a little shake of the halter. “If you haven’t worked that into your ‘great plan,’ you’d better start thinking about it. No more holding back. Do you understand?”
Gwena rolled her eyes and started to pull away. Elspeth wouldn’t let her, and Gwena was obviously not going to exert her considerable strength in something that might harm her Herald. But from the look of shock in her bright blue eyes, she had not expected this reaction from Elspeth.
“I said, do you understand me?” Elspeth pulled her head down and stared directly into her eyes.
Darkwind stood with his arms crossed, jaw set in a stern expression. He was trying his best to give the impression he supported Elspeth’s actions completely. In fact, he did.
:Yes,: Gwena managed.
“Are you going to stop holding back information?”
Gwena pawed the ground unhappily, but clearly Elspeth was not going to let her go until she got an answer she liked.
:Yes,: she said, meekly, obviously unable to see any other way out of the confrontation.
“Good.” Elspeth let go of the halter. She straightened, put her hands on her hips, and gave Gwena a look that Darkwind could not read. “Remember. You just gave your word.”
Darkwind did not think that Gwena was going to forget.
A gray sky gave no clue as to the time, but Darkwind thought it was not long after dawn. He had spent a restless night, haunted by the exhausted faces of the k’Sheyna mages. He had not been expecting anyone so early and the first words out of Darkwind’s mouth when Elspeth appeared at his ekele were, “We cannot do it here.”
He had been thinking hard about what they were to do; all during his meal, the long soak before bed (in the midst of which he had fallen asleep until a hertasi woke him), and into the night before sleep took him. And he had decided on certain provisions as he dressed. What they were to do was no problem; thanks to Elspeth and Treyvan he was accustomed now to improvising on existing spells. This would be a variation on the seeking-spell. But where—that was different. It could not be done within the confines of the Vale, even outside the shielded Practice ground. He knew that with deep certainty that had only hardened during sleep. Every instinct revolted when he even considered the idea.
Something was happening to the Heartstone, or possibly within it. He had no notion of what was going on, but now he did not want to do anything that affected it while within its reach. It was not just that the Stone had drained k’Sheyna mages, it was the way it had happened. It had waited, or seemed to, until they were certain of success and off their guard.
Perhaps that had been an accident, but what if it was not? He did not know. It didn’t seem likely, but less likely things had been happening with dismaying regularity. These were strange times indeed.
He realized as soon as he said the words that Elspeth would have no idea what had been going through his mind since the meeting. He felt like a fool as soon as he closed his mouth.
She’s going to think I’ve gone crazy, that I’m babbling.
But instead of confusion, Elspeth met the statement with a nod of understanding. “Absolutely,” she replied, as if she had been talking to him about the problems all along. “Too much interference from shields and set-spells, plus the Heartstone’s proximity itself. I’ve been thinking about that since last night. That Heartstone of yours is acting altogether too clever for my comfort. I don’t want to do something it might not like when I’m anywhere around it. It might decide that since I’m an Outlander, it’ll do more than just drain me.”
“It is not a thinking being,” he protested, but without conviction.
“Maybe not, but it acts like it is.” She glanced back over her shoulder, in the direction of the Stone. “Maybe it’s all coincidence, or maybe it’s something that Falconsbane set up a long time ago. But when it acts like it can think, I’m I going to assume that it is thinking and act accordingly.” She grinned crookedly. “As my Shin’a’in-trained teacher would say, ‘Just because you feel certain an enemy is lurking behind every bush, it doesn’t follow that you are wrong.’”
Shin’a’in proverbs from an Outlander. God help me. But he couldn’t help but smile ruefully in reply. “The trouble with proverbs is that they’re truisms,” he agreed. “You make me think that you are reading my thoughts, though.”
It was a half-serious accusation, although he made it with a smile. It was no secret that these Heralds had mind-magic—but did they use it without warning?
She laughed. “Not a chance. I don’t eavesdrop, I promise. No Herald would. It was just a case of parallel worries. So, where are we going to go to work?”
No Herald would. Perhaps the Companion might… but I suspect she knows that. He wasn’t worried about her Companion reading his thoughts. It was not likely that there was anything he would think that a Guardian Spirit had not seen before.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked instead. When she shook her head, he went back into his ekele and rummaged about in his belongings and what the hertasi had left him. He brought out two coats draped over his arm, and fruit and bread, handing her a share of the food. She took it with a nod of thanks. “I thought,” he said after she had settled beside him on the steps, “that we might work from the ruins.”
“The gryphons’ lair?” She tipped her head to one side. “There is a node underneath it. And we’re likely to need one. But what about—well—attracting things when we do the magic?”
“We won’t have the shields of the Vale, and that’s a problem,” he admitted, biting into a ripe pomera. “I don’t know how to get around that.”
She considered that for a moment, then shrugged. “We’ll deal with it, I suppose,” she replied. “Gwena can’t think of any way around it either, but she’s in agreement with both of us on not working near the Heartstone.” She finished the last of her bread and stood up, dusting her hands off. “So, what, exactly, are we doing?”
He licked juice from his fingers and followed her example, handed her a coat, then led the way down the stairs to the path below. “Well, we can’t do a wide open Mindcall,” he began.
“Obviously,” she said dryly. “Since we don’t want every nasty thing in the area to know that k’Sheyna is in trouble. I wouldn’t imagine we’d want to do a focused Mindcall either; something still might pick it up, even though we meant it only for Tayledras. There might even be something watching for a Mindcall like that, for all we know.”
“And what’s the point in wasting all the energy needed for a focused Mindcall to all the Clans when there may not be more than one or two Adepts that can help us?” he concluded. “No, what I’d thought that we should do is to send a specific message-spell; that is a complicated message that can be carried by a single bird.” He smiled to himself; she wouldn’t believe what kind of bird would carry the incorporeal message, but it was the most logical.
“To whom?” she asked in surprise, as Gwena joined them, following a polite ten paces behind. “I thought—” she stopped in confusion.
“I don’t know who to send it to, but I know what,” he explained, brushing aside a branch that overhung the path. “Somewhere in the Clans is a Healing Adept of a high enough level that he either knows or can figure out what we need to do. Now I know that no one here can, so I send out a message to the nearest Clan, aimed at any Adept that’s of our ability or higher. In this case, the nearest Clan is k’Treva. And I’m pretty sure they have someone better equipped to deal with this than we are. They offered their help a while back, and Father refused it.”
“And if no one there can help us after all?” she asked, darkly.
He shrugged. “Then I ask them to pass on the word to the others. They don’t have a flawed Heartstone in their midst. They can send out to any Clan Council. To tell you the truth, our biggest problem with getting the Stone taken care of has been isolation. Solve that, and we can solve the rest.”
The Vale was unusually silent, with all the mages abed and recovering. Their steps were the only sounds besides the faint stirring of leaves in the breeze and the bird songs that always circulated through the Vale. She was quiet all the way to the entrance and the Veil that guarded it. Beyond the protections, another winter snowstorm dropped fat flakes through the bare branches of the trees.
They shared a look of resignation, wrapped themselves in their coats and crossed the invisible barrier between summer and winter. The first sound outside was of their boots splashing into the puddles of water made by snow melted from the ambient heat of the Vale’s entrance.
There was no wind, and snow buried their feet to the calf with every step they took. Flakes drifted down slowly through air that felt humid on Darkwind’s face, and not as cold as he had expected. Above the gray branches, a white sky stretched featurelessly from horizon to horizon; Darkwind got the oddest impression, as if the snowflakes were bits of the sky, chipped off and slowly falling. Beneath the branches, the gray columns of the tree trunks loomed through the curtaining snow, and more snow carpeted the forest floor and mounded in the twigs of every bush. There were no evergreens in this part of the woods, so there was nothing to break the landscape of gray and white.
Snow creaked under their feet, and the cold crept into his boots. Their feet would be half frozen by the time they reached the ruins.
Darkwind didn’t mind the lack of color. After the riot of colors and verdant greens within the Vale, the subdued grays and gray-browns were restful, refreshing. He wished, though, that he had time and the proper surroundings to enjoy them.
This is a good day for bundling up beside a fire, watching the snowfall and not thinking of anything in particular.
“This is the kind of day when I used to curl up in a blanket in a window and read,” Elspeth said quietly, barely breaking the silence. “When I’d just sit, listen to the fire, watch the snow pile up on the window ledge, and think about how nice it was to be warm and inside.”
He chuckled, and she glanced at him. Gwena moved around them to walk in front, breaking the trail for them.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” he explained. “If we only had the time. I used to do much the same.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “I’d forgotten you used to live outside that glorified greenhouse. I like it, the Vale, I mean—but sometimes I miss weather when I’m in there. It’s hard to tell what time of day it is, much less what season.”
“Well, I imagine Wintermoon and Skif would be willing to trade places with us right now,” he replied thoughtfully. “This is good weather to be inside—but not for camping. Snow this damp is heavy when it collects on a tent. Oh, if you’re wondering, I sent Vree on ahead with a message about what we want to do; I expect Treyvan and Hydona will be waiting for us.”
“I was wondering.” She glanced at him again, but this time she half-smiled as she tucked her hair more securely inside the hood of her coat. “Not that I expected them to object, but it is considered good manners to let people know that you are planning on setting off fireworks from the roof of their house—and you plan to have their help in doing it.”
He laughed; this was a very pleasant change from the Elspeth of several weeks ago. Reasonable, communicative. And showing a good sense of humor. “Yes it is,” he agreed. “My message to them was that if they objected to the idea, to let me know immediately. That was when I first woke; since Vree didn’t come back, I assume they don’t mind.”
“Either that, or he forgot his promise and made a snatch at a crest-feather again,” she said with mock solemnity. “In that case, you’ll have to find yourself another bondbird.”
* * *
Elspeth enjoyed the walk, for with Gwena breaking the trail for them, the trip to the lair was something like a pleasant morning’s hike. They had to keep a watch for unexpected trouble, of course, but nothing more threatening appeared than a crow scolding them for being in his part of the forest.
This is the most relaxed I’ve been since I got here, she thought. Perhaps it was because the waiting was finally over. She’d had the feeling all along that the mages of k’Sheyna would never be able to solve the problem by themselves. Darkwind felt the same, she knew, but he never discussed it. He was relieved, too—but too conscientious to feel pleased with the failure of his Clan’s mages, even though it proved that he was right. He wasn’t a shallow man.
The ruins were cloaked in snow, which gave some portions an air of utter desolation, and others an uncanny resemblance to complete buildings. Passage of the gryphons in and around their territory kept the pathways they used relatively free of snow. It was easier to move here, but with the last of the trees out of sight, the place felt like a desert.
Vree was on his best behavior, it seemed, for when they approached the gryphons’ lair, they found him up on the “rafters” of the nest, pulling bits from a fresh-killed quail with great gusto.
He didn’t have time to do more than call a greeting to Darkwind, though. The gryphlets tumbled out of the nest and overran all three of them, knocking Darkwind off his feet and rolling him in the snow, wrestling with him as if they were kittens and he was a kind of superior cat-toy.
Elspeth laughed until her sides hurt; every time he started to get up, one of the youngsters knocked him over again. He was matted with snow; he looked like an animated snowman, and was laughing so hard she wondered how he caught his breath.
Gwena watched the melee wistfully, obviously wishing she could join in.
Elspeth decided that Darkwind could use a rescue. She waded in and started pulling tails, which turned the gryphlets on her. Within a heartbeat, she found herself going ramp-over-tail into a snowdrift, with a squealing Jerven on top of her, flailing with his short, stubby wings and kicking up clouds of the soft snow in all directions.
That was when Gwena joined the fun; making short charges and shouldering the youngsters aside so that she tumbled them into the snow the way they had knocked Darkwind and Elspeth over. The gryphlets loved that; Gwena was big enough to hold her own with them, and provided they kept their foreclaws fisted, they didn’t have to hold back with her in a rough-and-tumble.
In a few moments, their parents appeared, and rather than calling a halt to the game, they joined it. Now the odds were clearly against the gryphlets, and first Darkwind, then Elspeth switched sides, coming to the youngsters’ defense while Gwena sided with the parents. In moments, snow flew everywhere. It looked like a blizzard from the ground up.
The best strategy seemed to be seizing the tail of an adult, hampering movement, while the young one batted away at the front end with blows of their wings and with their claws held tightly into a fist to avoid injury.
That wouldn’t work for long, however.
Just as Elspeth was getting winded, Hydona turned the tables on them. The gryphon whirled, dragging Elspeth along with her and bringing her into the range of the huge wings. Suddenly she went tumbling, buffeted into another snowbank by a carefully controlled sweep of a wing; landing right beside Jerven who had gotten the same treatment. Before either of them could scramble to their feet, Hydona was upon them, pinning each of them down with a foreclaw.
“Trrruce?” the gryphon asked, her head cocked to one side, her beak slightly open as she panted. Steam rose in puffs from her half-open beak. Elspeth sensed the controlled power in the claw pinning her carefully into the drift, and marveled at it, even as she signaled her defeat laughingly. Hydona let both of them up, extending the claw again to help Elspeth to her feet.
“Thanks,” she said, looking for Gwena, and finding that Darkwind and Lytha had taken Gwena hostage, holding her against Treyvan’s continued good behavior. The Companion’s blue eyes sparkled like sapphires, and her ears were up and tail flagged—
In short, they only thought they had her.
Elspeth kept her mouth shut, waiting for Gwena to make her move.
Treyvan feinted, and Darkwind turned just a little too far to block him. For one moment, he took his eyes off the Companion.
That was when Gwena grabbed his collar in her teeth, and, whipping her head around on her long, graceful neck, jerked him off his feet and flung him sideways into Lytha.
Darkwind whuffed with surprise; Lytha squealed. They both went down in a tangle of legs and wings.
Elspeth giggled uncontrollably, then took a huge double handful of snow, packed it tight, and lobbed it at Gwena. It impacted against Gwena’s rump, and she whirled to glare at her Chosen indignantly. Darkwind howled with laughter, and the gryphlets joined in.
“I was afraid you were going to break the game up,” Elspeth told the female gryphon, as Darkwind and his partner surrendered to her mate.
Hydona shook her head to rid it of snow. “No,” she replied. “The little onesss werrre resstlessss. Now they will sssettle, and let usss worrk in peace.”
Elspeth stretched and began beating the snow out of her cloak, feeling vertebrae pop as her muscles loosened. “I feel like I’ve worked off a bit of nerves, too,” she began, when another creature popped its head out of the gryphon’s lair, ears pricked forward and eyes wide with interest.
:Is the battle over?: the kyree asked. :Or is this a temporary truce?:
“I think we’ve been defeated too soundly to make another attempt,” Darkwind said cheerfully. “Despite Gwena’s indignation. Am I right, my shieldbrother?” he asked, turning to Lytha.
The gryphlet nodded vigorously, and sneezed a clump of melting snow from her cere and crown. “Wet,” she complained. “Got sssnow in my featherssss.”
“If you fight in sssnow, you mussst expect sssome in your feathersss,” Hydona told her, with a twinkle.
:My famous cousin Warrl used to say, “You cannot have a battle without getting your fur in a mess.”: The kyree scratched meditatively at one ear. :He used to say, “You know how fierce the fighting was by how long after it takes to clean up.” If you two want to come inside, I can start a mage-fire for you to lie beside, and tell you a story.: The kyree’s head vanished into the lair again.
Jerven beat Lytha inside by less than half a length.
“I take it that was Rris?” Elspeth said, trying not to laugh.
“Yesss,” sighed Hydona. She looked at Treyvan, and the two of them said, in chorus, “That wasss Rrisss Let-me-tell-you-of-my-famousss-cousssin-Warrl of Hyrrrull Pack.”
“The childrrren love him,” Treyvan added. “I think I can bear with hisss famousss cousssin sstorriess sssince he doesss not repeat them.”
“Only the proverbsss and advice.” Hydona shrugged. “It isss no worssse than living with a Ssshin’a’in.”
“Surely, but what could be?” Darkwind agreed, and squinted at the sky. “We have all of the afternoon and some of the morning left. Do you want to start now?”
“I thought it might be wisssse,” Treyvan replied. “The lair isss not dirrrectly above the node. When I found the place that wasss, I built it into a ssshelter asss well. Would you follow?”
Darkwind waved him ahead; he and Hydona took up the lead, with the two humans following, Gwena between them. Elspeth laid a hand on her shoulder.
:Did you enjoy yourself ?: she asked. :You looked like you were having a wonderful time.:
:Very much,: Gwena replied, her breath steaming from her nostrils, her eyes still bright and merry. :That was fun! I’d nearly forgotten how much fun it is to be a child. Or to be with a child. No matter how serious things are, they can always play.:
:A good thing, too,: Elspeth chuckled, patting her on the neck. :They can remind us grownups that there’s a time to forget how serious things are. I miss the twins.:
:So do I: Gwena sighed gustily. :I miss a lot of things.:
Elspeth realized Gwena must feel rather alone. She at least had other humans around, however alien they were.
With Skif out on the hunt for Nyara, Gwena didn’t even have Cymry to talk to.
Gwena must have guessed the direction her thoughts were taking. :Oh, don’t feel too sorry for me,: she said, poking Elspeth in the shoulder with her nose. :I can do that well enough on my own!:
Elspeth made a face at her, relieved. :I’m sure you can,: she teased. :And I wouldn’t even have to encourage you.:
:Too true.: Gwena’s ears pricked forward and she brought her head up. :I do believe we have arrived.:
Before them loomed another rough building-shape, much like the lair, but cruder. Where the lair was clearly a dwelling, this was no more than a simple shelter; the most basic of walls and a roof. But it was fully large enough for the gryphons and their guests, with room to spare.
It was clear that Treyvan and his mate had constructed this place before the first snow fell. Elspeth wondered why they had built it. Had they always intended to work magic here in their ruins? Or had they some other purpose in mind?
They entered, to find that Treyvan had already started a mage-fire inside; the glowing ball gave them both heat and light. The interior of the crude building was appreciably warmer than the outside, although an occasional draft whipped by at ankle height. Elspeth decided to leave her coat on; it wasn’t that warm inside.
“What, exactly, arrre we doing?” Treyvan asked, settling down on his haunches. “I know of one kind of messssage-ssspell, but I do not know that it isss like the one you ussse.”
“Ours requires a carrier,” Darkwind explained carefully. He looked around and found a block of stone to sit on. “We generally use a bird of some kind. There are a lot of advantages to that. The spell itself weighs nothing, and it can’t be detected unless a mage is quite close to the bird. The bird doesn’t need to remember anything, so it doesn’t have to be a bondbird. The spell is in two parts; one is the message, and the other will identify the target. That part will tell the bird when it has found either the specific person that the message is for, or in our case, the kind of person the spell is for.”
“Interesssting.” Hydona nodded. “Better than oursss; lesss inclined to be detected. What bird arrre you usssing?”
“This one.” He pointed to the hood of his coat; a tiny head peeked out from beneath his hair. Very tiny; mostly bright black eyes, and a long, sharp beak. Elspeth blinked, and looked again.
“A hummingbird?” she said incredulously. “Where did that come from?”
“The Vale,” Darkwind grinned. “He was in my cloak hood until just before the children ran at us. He went up to shelter with Vree while we played; Vree knows better than to molest a hummingbird, since we use them for message-spells all the time. He ducked back inside my hood when I told him it was safe, and that was how I brought him here.”
“But a hummingbird?” She frowned; it was not the choice she would have made. The tiny birds were pretty enough, and certainly they did very well in the artificial world of the Vale, but it seemed to be a poor choice for carrying a message for what might well be hundreds of leagues. “Isn’t he going to freeze to death in this weather? What’s he going to eat? And how is he going to defend himself ?”
Darkwind held his hand up to his hood; the bird flew out and hovered for a moment before settling on his finger. It was no larger than the first joint of his thumb. “As long as he keeps moving, he’ll be fine; he won’t have any trouble with the cold. He won’t have to stop to eat, because I will have given him a tiny store of mage-energy that will carry him as far as k’Treva. And look at him.”
Elspeth kept her reservations to herself and took the time to examine the tiny bird closely. It was not one of the little flying jewels she was used to seeing; the bird was black, with only a hint of dull purple at his throat.
“This little fellow doesn’t need to defend himself because very few creatures or birds will be able to see him,” Darkwind continued. “The fact that you didn’t see him fly out of my hood or back in is proof of that. His speed is his defense; that and his size. He’s so small that even if something sees him, it isn’t likely to catch him. And if something is foolish enough to try to catch him, it is going to discover that it’s nearly impossible to try and catch a hummingbird in full flight.”
“Hmm.” Treyvan bent his head to examine the bird at short range. It looked right back at him, completely without fear, despite the fact that the gryphon could have inhaled the tiny creature and never noticed he had done so. “Ssso you will create a pocket of mage-enerrgy to feed the birrd? That ssshould make no morrre ssstirr than the ssspell itssself.”
“Exactly.” Darkwind looked very pleased. “These little fellows move so quickly that even if someone detected a spell, by the time they got to the place where they’d first detected it, the bird would be a hundred furlongs gone.”
“From the maps I’ve seen, it’s an awful long way to k’Treva,” Elspeth said doubtfully.
“Wild hummingbirds migrate so far to the south in the winter that we don’t even know where they go,” Darkwind replied.
:He’s right,: Gwena put in. :One of Kero’s men, the black fellow—I listened to him tell stories once to some of the trainees. He said that hummingbirds spent the winter in his land. And we have no notion of how far north he came.:
Well, if hummingbirds really traveled that far—
“He can do it, don’t worry,” Darkwind replied firmly. “These little ones have carried messages like this one before, even in winter. And once he gets to k’Treva and finds our Adept, someone will see to it that he gets the best honey-nectar and will find a territory for him in their Vale.”
Once again she was struck by the care the Tayledras had for the creatures that they shared their lives with—even a tiny hummingbird that was in no way the kind of partner that their bondbirds were.
Darkwind shook his head. “The little fellow is ready and eager to go. Let’s get to this, so that he doesn’t have to wait.”
Elspeth couldn’t imagine how he would know that, but she agreed. This was likely to take a fair amount of time.
“Indeed,” Hydona said, nodding. “Rrrisss cannot keep the little onesss quiet forever.”
* * *
Elspeth was very glad Gwena had come along and even happier that the Companion wasn’t as tired as she was.
The walk back to the Vale, which had been so pleasant on the way out, was a daunting prospect now.
:Neither of you are heavy,: Gwena said, as the three of them followed the gryphons out into the snow. :The Vale is not that far. I can carry both of you, or you can lean against me, if you like.:
The sun was faintly visible through the thick clouds; there was perhaps a candlemark until sunset. “What do you think?” Elspeth asked the Hawkbrother. “Walk, or ride?”
:I can get you there by sunset,: Gwena said, coaxingly.
“Ride,” Darkwind replied decisively. “If you have no objection.”
“None at all.” In fact, this might prove to be an intriguing opportunity…
Darkwind was possibly the single most attractive man she had ever met, and not just because he was so exotic. And once she had figured out that he wasn’t being obtuse in his lessons just to aggravate her, she found him even more attractive.
Admittedly, most of the Tayledras were attractive, either physically, mentally, or both. But Darkwind drew her as no one else had. She wanted to know more about him—and she wanted him to know more about her. It was one thing to be attracted to someone. It was another thing entirely to act on that attraction.
Especially if it proved to be only one-sided.
Horrible thought. But possible.
And her pride would not permit her to go panting after him like a puppy. Skif’s example of slavish infatuation was enough to decide her on that. She would never put herself in the position to be humiliated the way he had been.
She mounted first; Darkwind, less experienced, used a handy chunk of fallen rock to mount up behind her.
:I promise I’ll be gentle,: Gwena teased, reminding them both of the uncomfortable jog Darkwind had taken, perched behind Elspeth over Gwena’s hipbones, as they hurried to the aid of another scout. :Nothing more than a fast, smooth walk.:
“Thank you,” Darkwind said fervently.
The gryphons had already made their weary farewells; as custodians of this node, they had used the most strength in linking into it and feeding the power to Darkwind, Gwena, and Elspeth. The hummingbird was on his way, shooting into the sky like a slung stone. There was nothing holding them here.
Snow continued to fall, but the light was fading, and the ruins had a haunted look to them that made Elspeth’s skin crawl. Gwena responded to her uneasiness by heading out by the most direct route, one that would skirt the hertasi swamp but would not go in. That was no place to be in weather like this.
“What happens to the hertasi in the winter?” she asked, suddenly. “The ones that live out in the marsh, I mean?”
“They don’t precisely hibernate, but they do not leave their caves much,” Darkwind said into her left ear, while Gwena waded through the soft snow at a fairly brisk pace. His hands felt good on her hips. “They seal themselves into their caves; sleep much, and eat little, stay close to fires. What time they spend awake, they use in making small things. Carvings, mostly. Everything they own is carved or ornamented, at least a little.”
“I gathered they had a fondness for that sort of thing,” Elspeth replied. “You know, they don’t approve of my uniforms. Too plain, I suppose.”
“Precisely.” He chuckled. “That is one reason why they enjoy working with us. They have a number of traditional designs they use, but we are quicker at creating new ones than they are. Or perhaps it is simply that we are more uninhibited. That is part of the trade they have with us; when one of them wants a new design for something, he goes to one of us craftsmen, and we create it for him. That, and protection and shelter, and we earn their service.”
“Us craftsmen?” she said, puzzled. “I didn’t know you were a craftsman.”
“I do clothing design, or I did. I am no great artist like Ravenwing,” he replied, and she had the impression that he was a little uncomfortable, perhaps embarrassed. “Odd as it may seem, when they are at leisure, the hertasi of the Vale enjoy having elaborate clothing to wear.”
She considered teasing him and decided against it. She recalled the festival clothing that he and Starblade had worn; clothing that seemed to have been created by the same hand. Now she knew it probably had been. His hand. Had that been a kind of silent signal of reconciliation? What other signals was she missing?
“You know,” she said slowly, “back at home there’s an entire set of codes in the flowers people wear, that they give to one another. It’s even more elaborate at Court. People have carried on entire conversations, wordlessly, with the flowers they have worn during the course of a day.”
“Really?” He seemed amused and relieved that she had turned the topic to something else. “Here there is only one meaning to a gift of a flower.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
“The same as a gift of a feather—that one wishes intimacy.” She blinked, now understanding a number of exchanges she had seen but hadn’t understood.
“If the feather is from any bird, the relationship is casual,” he continued. “If it is from one’s bondbird, however, the meaning is that it is to be one of deeper intentions.”
A sudden image flashed from memory, of the shaman Kethra, a string of feathers braided into her hair when she had never seen the Shin’a’in wear feathers before.
“Is that why Kethra—” she exclaimed, then stopped, blushing at her own rudeness.
But Darkwind didn’t seem to think it was rude. “Yes,” he said simply. “Those were feathers from the birds he bonded to before that raven—a gray owl, and a falcon called a perlin. When our birds molt, we save the feathers. Those we do not need to use for repair when a bird breaks a feather, we keep for special purposes, and for gifts.”
“He needs another bird,” she said, thinking out loud. “You know, watching you and the others with your birds—it isn’t like a Herald with a Companion, but it’s an important relationship. He needs a bird, and I don’t think either he or Kethra realize how much, or the good it would do him to have one.”
Silence then, as Gwena continued to push her way through the snow beneath the barren, gray branches of the forest, as the light slowly leached from the sky and the shapes of trees far away lost their definition, blurring into charcoal shadows. She wondered if she had broken some unspoken taboo among the Hawkbrothers. Or if, perhaps, she had sounded arrogant, as if she thought that she knew it all.
“Odd,” he said, finally. “That is precisely what I have been thinking. Father lost his last bird to Falconsbane, and may hesitate to ask someone to help him find another. Kethra knows nothing of the bond of Tayledras and bird, how important it is to us. All of us have a bird of one sort or another, Elspeth. The mages often bond to a small owl, or to one of the corbies, but all of us have birds, and all of enhanced breeding.”
“It seems to me that the birds you have are more like—well—house-cats. They have that kind of independence of thought, but willingness to be somewhat dependent.” She shook her head, at a loss to explain what she meant. “They’re not like dogs—well, mostly they aren’t. But they sure as fire are not like the falcons and accipiters I know! The best you can get from them is tolerance, unless you can Mindspeak with animals.”
“You are very observant. That is very true. They have that capacity for real affection that most of the true raptors lack; they are social, and they are intelligent enough to work together instead of preying on one another. Because of that capacity, the bond between us is as much of friendship as dependence. The only trouble is, this is not breeding season, and all the adult birds within the Vale are already bonded.”
Perhaps the waning light had made her other senses sharper; perhaps it was just that she had become accustomed to listening for nuances in the way Darkwind spoke. “Within the Vale?” she repeated. “Are there birds of Vale lineage outside the Vale?”
“Many. All those that are not claimed by someone as an eyas are left free to follow their own will.” He was silent for a moment. “But without the bond, their wild instincts come to the fore, and aside from size, it is difficult to tell them from their wild cousins. We could trap a passage bird, perhaps. But that would be a poor way to begin a relationship that is based in trust.”
“I see your point.” And she did. A wild-bred bird never connected the trap with the human that took him from it. In fact, a wild-bred bird often woke to his surroundings when securely mewed, and the falconer began the careful process of manning him. But a bird as intelligent as one of bondbird stock would make the immediate connection between trap and trapper. And he would not be pleased, however good their intentions. “Have you asked Vree what he thinks we should do?”
“Actually, no.” She could tell by the tone of his voice that she had surprised him, probably by saying something one of his people wouldn’t have thought of. But she was used to asking Gwena’s advice, and while she wouldn’t have considered posing a complicated question to the bondbird, this was something he could realistically handle.
The gyre dropped down ahead of them out of the trees, circled about beneath the branches, and chirped at Darkwind before regaining the height he preferred with a few strong wingbeats.
Darkwind laughed aloud. “You pleased him, Wingsib,” he said. “He was very flattered by being asked his opinion. And in his own very direct way, he has the perfect answer. He says that we must wait for one of the birds of the proper lineage to be injured. It is winter; first-year birds are injured all the time, trying for difficult kills. In the normal way of things, they will heal upon their own; sometimes other birds of Tayledras breeding, even their parents, will feed them while they heal. And in the way of things, if they do not heal properly and there is none to feed them, they die. But if the other birds of the Vale know we are looking for an injured bird, they will watch for one such, and we may play rescuer.”
“Giving us a grateful bird instead of an angry one.” She smiled; it was the best kind of solution. “I take it that he’s going to speak to the other birds?”
“Once again, you guess correctly.” Darkwind’s voice was as warm as the gathering night was chill. “Elspeth, if it will not offend you, I would like to say that you are a much easier person to be around now.”
She flushed. “Well… Darkwind, some of what you didn’t like was something I have to do when I am around my own people. They expect me to lead; they expect me to act in certain ways. That ‘attitude’ you accused me of having is a big part of that. I’m sorry it had become a habit that I wasn’t conscious of. I think some of it was associated with a kind of reflex; if the person I was with wasn’t wearing a white uniform, then I acted a certain way without even considering what I was doing.” Would he understand? Would he even try? “I am royalty, Darkwind. No matter that my land matters less to you than one of Vree’s broken feathers, I still am royal, I am expected to act in a certain way, and I can’t escape that. I’ve been bred and raised to it.”
“Ah.” She hoped that what she read into the tone of that single syllable was dawning understanding.
She sighed. “There’s something else,” she said, through painful shyness. “I’m rather the plain-plumaged bird of my family. Everyone else is so handsome it’s like—like living among Hawkbrothers. So the only reason I can think of for a young man to be attracted to me is because of my rank. And there have been those. I try to keep them at a distance.”
“I can understand that,” he said after a moment, in which the sound of Gwena’s breathing and the muffled sounds of her hooves in the snow filled the twilight forest and defined the borders of their little private universe. “But, Elspeth, those young men who were blinded by your rank were fools. Or else they failed to see the quiet beauty inside the showy. Or—”
She sensed, rather than saw, the grin behind her.
“Or perhaps they were dazzled by the stark white attire.”
She groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re in on the conspiracy to steal my Whites!”
“Only a little.” She waited for him to continue. “I will admit to advising Lursten on a choice of substitute wardrobe.”
She chuckled, and they passed the rest of the journey in silence, as the twilight darkened to true night and the air chilled further. Before it became too dark for him to see to fly, Vree came winging in to land on Darkwind’s wrist. He held the bird between them, keeping him warmed with the combined heat of their bodies, something no raptor of Elspeth’s acquaintance would have tolerated, much less enjoyed.
True to her promise, Gwena brought them to within sight of the Vale just as the last of the dull light of sunset faded from the western sky.
Darkwind slid from her back as soon as they passed the entrance to the Vale, Vree balancing carefully on his wrist. “I am for sleep,” he said with a smile. “Do not take this amiss, Wingsib, but take it as a compliment, please. I have wished to offer you a feather since the days of our first acquaintance, for I find you a very attractive woman. More so when you smile, rather than frowning on me so formidably!”
She blinked at him in shock, then tentatively smiled in return.
“Thank you,” she said simply, blushing. “Ah—Darkwind, if I wasn’t so tired—oh, that sounds like such a transparent excuse but—”
“But it is, sadly, true. Elspeth, even if you were not weary, I feel that I am like to fall asleep even as I walk to my ekele. Shall we take it as true and not an excuse?”
Something warmed deep inside her. “I think that’s reasonable.”
:And I think you should both go to bed. To sleep,: Gwena chided gently.
“All right, little mother,” Darkwind said, amused. “We shall. Tomorrow we will be dealing with all the creatures our magics attracted, at any rate. We will need a good rest.”
She couldn’t be disappointed, she thought. Not after all that. But no, that would not do. It was not enough.
She dismounted and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. With an inner flush, she looked up into his clear eyes.
Darkwind held Vree a little further from his body, inviting her in closer. She smiled, not knowing how well it could be seen, and felt Gwena send a quiet touch of approval.
Elspeth raised a hand to Darkwind’s face, caressed the hair at his temple. He licked his lips as Vree spread his wings, and bent his neck down just a little, enough for one loving kiss, framed by the rich light and warmth of the Vale behind them.
Darkwind woke to a cool, pebble-scaled hand shaking him awake. He raised his head from his pillow and blinked to clear his eyes.
It was still dark.
:Darkwind,: said the hertasi at his elbow. :There is a disturbance.:
He recognized the mind-voice as that of Suras, one of the three hertasi who had attached themselves to Darkwind when he moved back into the Vale. The lizard-folk did that; it was one of their many peculiarities. They simply decided who they wanted to serve and proceeded to do just that. One day, Darkwind was living in the clutter created by moving, and putting together his own meals, doing his own laundry and cleaning up after himself and Vree. Then, with no warning at all, he arrived home to find everything straightened, folded, and put away, and a meal waiting.
There were advantages and disadvantages to being back in the Vale. He’d felt a pang of displeasure at his loss of autonomy. However, with hertasi serving him, it was much easier for people to find him when he was needed. That, too, could be a disadvantage, especially when he was trying to sleep off the last time he’d been needed.
Suras patted his arm again. :Disturbance, Darkwind. You are needed, please.:
“What kind of trouble is it this time?” he asked—or rather, mumbled into his pillow—hoping it was something he could get someone else to take care of.
:Magical,: Suras said curtly. His tone told Darkwind everything he needed to know. He was not getting out of this one. :A magical disturbance between here and the ruins.:
No doubt about this; he, Gwena, and Elspeth were responsible for dealing with it. “I’ll be right there.”
Suras lit a lantern and vanished. Darkwind clenched his eyes closed, opened them reluctantly, and dragged himself out of bed. Vree roused and blinked sleepily, then yawned widely. :Awake again? Rather sleep.:
Darkwind yawned in response. “You and I both, beloved. I’ll go on ahead, and call on you if you’re needed. Fair enough?”
:You go. I sleep. Fair deal.:
Vree settled and tucked his beak under feathers again while Darkwind felt around for the clothing Suras would have laid out before waking him. I can’t say I wasn’t expecting this, he thought glumly. But I wish it had waited until after sunrise to start. Maybe we should have just stayed with the gryphons.
He had known that when they worked a spell requiring that much power and concentration, things would be attracted. There were too many power-hungry creatures in the Pelagirs for any educated mage to think that magical workings of any scale could go unnoticed. Odd how much had gone into so simple and tiny a package as that hummingbird messenger, though.
Well, tiny, yes. Simple, no. There had been all manner of enhancements on that little bird, for speed, for endurance, plus the pocket of energy it would use to feed. Then all the spells needed to hold the message, to deliver it, to recognize the right kind of person to unlock it…
We did what we could to shield, everything we could spare from the spells themselves, without harming the little thing itself, he told himself. We did everything we knew how to do, but I suppose the bleedoff was noticed. There hasn’t been anything really troublesome around since the basilisk. If luck is with us, these things will be small. Something we can run off, rather than killing.
He dressed carefully, knowing that he would probably be spending the whole day out in the cold, wrapping his joints and neck in brushed-cotton and insulation. It was still dark by the time he descended the steps to the Vale floor, and he had no idea how long it would be until dawn. It was going to be a very long day indeed.
* * *
Another messenger dyheli came galloping closer just as they ran the younger of the lodella pair off with its fuzzy tail tucked down between its legs, all its dorsal spines flat, and its hairless head ducked low. The elder had already flagged its surrender with its retreating back, but the younger one had less sense and more bravado. They’d actually had to pound it a bit with hammer-spells before it gave up.
Darkwind waved to his partners, who came up beside him just as the stag neared. “Now what?” Elspeth asked, as she propped herself against her Companion’s neck, then shifted toward the saddle to avoid being caught in Gwena’s steaming breath.
Elspeth hadn’t spent a lot of time in the saddle; the Companion had been far more effective helping as a third herder when they met with creatures that were willing to be shepherded away. It wasn’t just her size; she also seemed to be able to project a “presence” that played a factor in discouraging hostilities from the less-intelligent creatures.
These “disturbances” had actually included a fair percentage of “browsers;” creatures that meant no real harm, but could not be allowed close to habitations. But the rest—
The rest of the beasts facing them would have been only too happy to work some harm, but the beasts faced the three of them, plus the two gryphons, and Falconsbane was no longer there to support his creatures with magic.
The gryphons had tackled the first real problem; the half-dozen gandels that tried to force their way into the ruins. But without Falconsbane’s will driving them, they were inclined to fold at the first show of resistance. A few feints of Hydona’s claws and a stooping dive by Treyvan convinced them elsewhere would be far safer.
That set the tone for the day; to frighten the creatures away rather than actually closing to fight with them.
Illusions proved as effective as real threats; after the gandels, they had sent a pack of Changewolves running with the illusion of a bigger, stronger pack downwind facing them to claim the territory. Illusions were exhausting, though; they took more magical energy from the caster than actually fighting, but certainly left the user less winded, and less likely to strike at shadows. After a full day of active casting, though, illusions could deaden even the most ardent of mages.
On the other hand, one generally doesn’t get wounded casting illusions. Or bitten, gored, horned, or worse. As Vree would say, “Fair deal.”
It actually had a certain entertainment value, as he and Elspeth got into an impromptu contest over which of the two of them could create the most imaginative counter to the problem at hand. He’d conceded defeat when Elspeth began dropping huge illusionary clay pots on the dumber creatures’ heads, or sending blizzards of wildflowers in their faces. They’d both found themselves laughing after that.
So far, they had been incredibly lucky; the illusions hadn’t failed yet to drive away their targets, though once or twice they’d needed to reinforce the illusion with a bit of magical force.
The dyheli stopped and pawed at the snow, a signal for attention. Was their luck about to run out?
:You are called to the ruins,: the dyheli said, before Darkwind could ask him why he had been sent. :The gryphons say there is a message waiting for you there. Three of the Vale mages are following me, to take your place.:
Darkwind slumped against a tree in relief. He had completely forgotten that the mages of k’Sheyna would recover from their draining eventually. He had been so used to depending on himself and no one else, used to the idea that there was no one to relieve him. It had literally never occurred to him that someone would be along to take their places.
“So what is it?” Elspeth asked. “Who are we going to have to rescue this time?”
“No one,” he said, mentally thanking the messenger at the same time. “Believe it or not, no one. We’ve had a reply to our call for help. It came to the ruins, since that was where the hummingbird started from. Keyed to us, of course, so no one else can break into it.”
:Would that be the kind of personally keyed message we would have sent if we‘d been able?: Gwena asked, her tiredness fading as her interest was caught. :But it hasn’t been more than a day—I had no idea that little bird could fly that fast or far!:
“I hoped he would find a good carrying wind somewhere up above the clouds,” Darkwind told her. “That, and the enhancement spells we put on him would have made all the difference. Once k’Treva got the message, of course, it wouldn’t take them very long to reply—they knew where to send it and who to send it to; it takes a little longer than straight Mindspeech, but not much.”
“Then the bird probably reached them just as we tackled the wolves,” Elspeth replied thoughtfully. “It hardly seems possible, but I suppose that if a falcon can be carried off for hundreds of leagues by a high wind, there’s no reason why a hummingbird couldn’t have that happen to him, too.”
She straightened, and looked around. “We’re going to have to walk,” she told Darkwind. “Gwena is in no shape to carry us.”
She bent down and scooped up a little snow, and rubbed Gwena’s forehead with it. When Gwena didn’t protest that she was fine, thank you, Darkwind figured that Elspeth was right. While the Companion hadn’t been working any direct magic, she had been acting as an energy source for both of them, plus giving the more timid creatures a good scare when she charged them. She must be as exhausted as they were.
“That’s all right,” he said. “It isn’t that far.” He oriented himself, recognizing a clump of mingled evergreen and goldenoak, stand of willows, and a rock formation. “We’ve been working in circles, actually. We’re hardly more than a dozen furlongs from the edge of the ruins.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Elspeth asked.
“For me to get my second wind,” he told her. “I haven’t your youthful resilience.” She chuckled. He closed his eyes for a moment, drew up reserves of energy, then pushed away from the tree he had been leaning on. “Let’s go see what the news is.”
* * *
The visible component of the message was a tiny, incandescent spark that danced in the air above the exact center of the crude building in the ruins. It brightened as soon as they entered the building, and the moment they were both in place, with Darkwind to the east of the node and Elspeth beside him, the spark flared suddenly.
Then it—unfolded, was the only word Darkwind could think of. It stretched down in a line that just touched the ground, then the line opened up on either side, until it formed a soft-edged mirror that hung in the air between them.
For a moment, Darkwind saw only his own reflection. Then the mirror dimmed and darkened to blue starlight, and the face of another Tayledras, this one a contemporary of his father at a guess, looked solemnly out at him.
It was hard to remember that this was only a message, that he could not actually speak to the one in the mirror, any more than he could hold a conversation with a piece of parchment. The illusion was so complete that it took an effort of will to keep from greeting the stranger.
:K’Treva has heard the need of k’Sheyna,: came the mind-voice of the stranger. :While we are grieved by your situation we are relieved that you came at last to us. We feared for you but saw no way to help you without acting like tyrants or well-meaning but intrusive siblings.:
Darkwind nodded; that made sense. No Clan interfered in the affairs of another without some kind of truly catastrophic emergency involved.
:We have the help you need,: the other continued. :A Healing Adept, strong and well-versed in his craft, and who is one of the most creative mages this Clan has ever held.: The other smiled, briefly. :Such praise may seem excessive, but as the Shin’a’in saying goes, “It is no boast when it is fact.” I will build him a Gate to a place I know within your territory, one that I hope will be far enough away that it will not disturb your Stone. From the Gate terminus, I believe it will be about a half day’s ride to your Vale under good conditions, and certainly no more than a full day. Expect him within that time once you feel the perturbations of the Gate. If Firesong cannot help you, no one of k’Treva can. Be of good cheer, brothers.:
With that, the entire construction sparkled and winked out. Darkwind stared across the room at Elspeth, unable to believe their good fortune.
“You look like a stunned bird,” she observed.
“I feel like a stunned bird,” he admitted. “It’s incredible.”
“I have to tell you,” she said, shaking off her daze, “I was standing here waiting for the ax to fall. I never thought there’d be anyone in the first Clan we sought help from powerful enough—and willing—to handle this mess. Especially not after what it did to our mages.”
“Nor did I,” he admitted. “I thought that surely even if there was a Healing Adept within k’Treva that we would have to convince him to come here. And then we would have to convince his Clan to permit him to put himself at risk. They must have been convinced already that we needed their help and were just waiting for us to ask for it.”
Elspeth crossed the room to stand closer to him. “Was I missing something, or did he imply that he was here after the Stone shattered and that his Clan was worried about yours?”
Darkwind winced, but felt comfortable enough with her now not to bother covering it. “You are correct. He said—or implied—exactly that.”
Memories, though dimmed with time, still had the power to hurt him. Heart and mind in agony, as well as body—the dim shapes of strangers in his sickroom. Shock holding him silent in the face of their gentle questioning. Then the voice of his father, harshly telling them to leave the boy alone…
“Right after the Stone shattered, I was told that k’Treva sent mages to discover what had happened and to volunteer their help,” he told her. “I was—still in shock, hurt, and I do not recall most of it. But they went away without doing much except to help treat some of the worst wounded. I suppose that Father must have sent them away as soon as he could.”
“Evidently if he tried to cover things up, he didn’t manage as well as he thought he had,” she replied, dryly. “Not if they were still concerned after all this time.”
“Or he managed to let them see enough that there were still doubts; kept from completely covering things up, despite Falconsbane’s control.” That seemed the more likely, given what else Starblade had done. Like protecting his son by driving him away…
Elspeth shook her head. “I wonder sometimes if you realize just how strong your father is. When you think what that kind of attempt must have cost him… I can’t imagine doing half that much. It took some kind of cleverness, too, to get around Falconsbane’s compulsions. Starblade’s a strong man.”
“It is a brittle strength,” he replied, sadly. “And like a bit of metal that has been bent too often, he is apt to break if he is stressed again.” He shook his head. “Ah, this is gloomy thinking and poorly suited to our good news. Who knows? It may speed Father’s recovery.”
“It might at that.” It seemed to him when she stood up that she moved with a bit more energy; certainly he felt that way. A great burden had been taken from his shoulders. K’Sheyna would have the help it needed. The long nightmare would soon be over.
He refused to think beyond that. There would be time enough for plans later. Let the Stone be dealt with first, and worry about what followed that when the time came.
He stopped at the gryphons’ lair long enough to give them the good news, then they trudged back to the Vale through the snow, though it was nowhere near the job it was yesterday. They had been this way so often they were making a trail between the ruins and the Vale. A few months ago he would have worried about that, but not now. There wasn’t any real reason to worry about leaving signs of where they had been. He sighed with relieved contentment, and relaxed a bit more, feeling muscles unknot all over his back. Shortly this would all be true Tayledras land again, and things like the Changewolves would not get past the borders—
:Up! Help!:
His head snapped up to a call only he heard. Vree!
He froze where he stood and linked with the gyre, fearing the worst. Dawnfire and her red-shouldered hawk all over again. Elspeth and Gwena stared at him for a half-heartbeat, then went into defensive postures. He prepared to break the link with Vree if he had to, to save himself—
—but caught no pain, no feeling of imminent danger. Vree felt him link and welcomed him in, his mind seething with agitation but not pain. He had given a distress call, but the bondbird himself was uninjured.
:Here! Help! Look-look-look!: the bird Mindcalled again, and this time gave Darkwind a look through his eyes.
A disorienting look, for Vree circled and twisted wildly, but Darkwind was used to looking through his bird’s eyes. He recognized the spot immediately; on the edge of the swamp, but he did not recognize the man that was the source of Vree’s anger and distress, a man laying out what could only be a hertasi trap. The view dipped and swung, as Vree circled, his silent rage burning in Darkwind’s mind, making the Tayledras clench his fists and long with the bird to screech out a battle-cry. Then with another turn, Darkwind saw what must have triggered that rage.
The man had three pack-mules with him, and on the third was a raptor, a big one, bound on its back and hooded. From the little he could see, it looked to be a crested hawk-eagle; from the size of it, it could only be of bondbird breeding.
He had no idea that he was running until he saw Elspeth pounding beside him, already astride her Companion, and offering him a hand up. He seized it, and scrambled behind her. Then they were off, plunging through the thick snow. This was not like the last wild ride he’d made, for Gwena could not run or trot in the heavy snow. Her progress was a series of lunges or leaps; it was harder for him to keep his balance on her back, but easier on his bones.
Their quarry knew they were coming, for they made no effort to hide the noise of their passage. But their quarry did not know two very pertinent facts.
He was nearer the hertasi village than he knew. And while they were sluggish in the cold, they were by no means impotent. Anger alone was enough to keep their blood warm in the snow and give them the same agility they had in the high heat of summer. They, too, could dress for the cold and preserve some body heat when action outside was needed.
And although the encroaching mage had prevented the bondbird he had caught from calling its distress, Vree was under no such handicap. Nor was Darkwind; while he was nowhere near as adept at Mindspeaking with other creatures as his brother Wintermoon, he was still one of the best in the Clan. The soundless cry went out for assistance.
While Vree was calling his fellow bondbirds, Darkwind was rousing the hertasi village, starting with old Nera. The attack was conceived and coordinated in a matter of moments. The three forces converged on their target at nearly the same instant.
If the mage—for mage he was; he had a lightning-flare ready for them the moment they plunged over the top of the hill and began the sliding descent toward him—had only had to face Darkwind and Elspeth, he might have won. They were tired, and he was fresh. If he had only faced the hertasi, with their simple fishing spears, he would have won. And he had already proven he was capable of felling bondbirds from the sky.
But, since only Darkwind’s party was making any noise, he had no idea that the others were on the way until it was too late to do anything about them.
Darkwind flung a shield up before them to deflect the first bolt. The second went awry as Vree dove, his claws ripping through the cloth of the man’s hood, narrowly missing the scalp. Behind Vree came another forestgyre, in the same stooping dive, then a gyrkin, then a trio of perlins, all of them slashing at head and face with their long, sharp talons. They struck to hurt, not to blind; the perlins in fact struck close-fisted, as if they were trying to knock a duck out of the sky. The mage screamed in pain as the talons scored deep gashes in his scalp, staggered under the blows of the perlins, any of which would have been hard enough to stun him had they hit the temple.
He tried to protect himself with his arms. Apparently, like most Pelagir-wilds mages, there were severe gaps in his education. He seemed unable to summon any physical shields.
The birds retreated to the protection of the skies, gaining altitude as one. The mage stood, one hand on his bleeding scalp. From behind him, a thicket of spears boiled up out of the half-frozen swamp.
Darkwind struck then, gesturing behind Elspeth’s back with two clenching fists. Gray and green stripes of a binding spell tangled the mage’s hands and his magic for a moment. That moment was all that was needed. The hertasi did the rest.
They swarmed about the mage, casting their fishing spears and pulling on the lines. He tried to run, then slipped and floundered in the heavy snow. He scrambled to his feet again, and fell for the last time. The hertasi overran him, and he writhed to avoid the wicked points of the spears.
In moments, he looked like nothing so much as a hedgehog. In heartbeats, he was dead.
Gwena skidded to a halt in the snow beside the man’s string of pack animals, a trio of tired mules who gazed at them with absolute indifference. Darkwind slid down off her back and hurried to the last one, the one bearing the bird like just another bundle of forest gleanings.
This much the man had known; he had bound the talons into fists, tied them together, bound the wings to the body so that it would not injure itself, then hooded the bird so that it could not see and would not struggle. The hood was strung to the bound feet by a cord, to prevent further movement, and from the cord dangled a carved bead.
As Darkwind’s hands touched the bundle, he felt—something. It was akin to the draining effect of the Heartstone, and was centered in that bead, and spread throughout the bindings.
He drew back and examined the bird with mage-sight—and swore. Small wonder he had not Heard the thoughts of this bird; it was bound by magic as well as by bands of fabric, a binding that linked its life-force to the spell that held it. And that could only have been for one purpose.
Elspeth bit her lower lip and peered at the bindings on the captured hawk-eagle. Her face looked as it did when she was hearing news she didn’t like.
“He was going to use this bird as some kind of sacrifice, wasn’t he?” Elspeth said, her own voice tight with anger. She put a hand toward the hawk-eagle. “That’s not all, Darkwind, this bird is in pain. He hurt it when he caught it.”
She had been quicker than he; though she could not sense the bird’s thoughts, she had felt its pain. He was glad he hadn’t touched the poor thing; he could only have hurt it worse, unknowingly.
First things first; destroy the mage-bindings so that the bird’s mind could roam free and it could hear his Mindspeech. Until then, it would struggle against him, thinking he was an enemy, hurting itself further.
The man had been a Master, but no Adept; Darkwind snapped the shackles of magic with a single savage pull but left the physical bindings in place. With a carefully placed dagger cut, he removed the carved bead. Beneath the bindings, the bird was in a state near to shock, but not actually suffering from that ailment. Darkwind could still touch its mind, talk to it sensibly, and know he would be heard.
He stretched out his thoughts—carefully, gently, with a sure, but light touch.
:Friend,: he said, soothingly.
The hawk-eagle tossed up its head as far as it could and struggled fruitlessly against the bindings. :NOT!: it screamed.
:Friend,: Darkwind repeated firmly, showing it a mental picture of its former captor lying in the stained snow. :The enemy is dead.:
The bird struggled a moment more, then stopped. Its head came up again, but this time slowly, as fear ebbed and the bird’s courage returned. It considered his words for a moment, and the image he had Sent; considered the sound of his mind-voice.
:See!: it demanded imperiously.
“I’m going to unhood him,” Darkwind warned. The hertasi backed off, but both Elspeth and her Companion stayed. “I don’t know what he might do. He’s bondbird stock, and right now he’s sensible, but he may go wild once he can see again.”
Elspeth reached forward with gloved hands. “You need four hands to undo those wrappings. I’ll take my chances.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” No matter how intelligent, bondbirds were raptors, and likely to do unexpected things when injured and in pain, even one like Vree, brought up from an eyas and bonded before he was hard-penned. And this bird had never bonded to anyone. Still, she was right, and the sooner they got the bird untied, the more likely it was to listen.
The bird had been hooded with an oversize falcon’s hood; a little too small; uncomfortable, certainly, and it would have been impossible for the bird to eat or cast through the hood. But Darkwind doubted that this man had made any plans to feed his catch, through the hood or otherwise. He got the end of one of the ties in his teeth, and the other in his free hand, and pulled, continuing the motion with his hand to slip the hood off the magnificent hawk-eagle’s head.
It blinked for a moment, as the feathers of its crest rose to their full, aggressive height, the pupils of its golden eyes dilating to pinpoints as it got used to the light. Then it swiveled its head and saw for itself what Darkwind had shown it.
It opened its beak in a hiss of anger and satisfaction, then turned those intelligent golden eyes back to Darkwind. :Out,: it demanded, flexing bound wings once in a way that left no room for doubt about what it meant. :Out!:
It seemed calm enough, if still in pain. :Let me get your feet free first,: he replied. :Then you can stand while I get the rest of this mess off of you.:
Once again, the bird gave careful consideration to what he had said, weighing his reply against what it wanted. Darkwind marveled at the bird’s intelligence; even Vree seldom thought about what Darkwind told him.
:Good,: the hawk-eagle said shortly, and stopped any effort to free itself. It held itself completely still, and while Elspeth held the huge creature, Darkwind picked delicately at the mess of rags and string muffling the hawk-eagle’s talons and tying them into fisted balls.
Finally he got them free, and Elspeth placed the bird on the saddlepack. Its talons closed convulsively on the leather, and it flexed its claws once or twice to assure itself of its balance.
The hawk-eagle stood on the saddlepack and looked Darkwind straight in the eyes. :Good,: it said. :Out now!:
It waited while they picked the wrappings from its bound wings, talons digging deeply into the leather covering of the pack. Those talons were as long as Darkwind’s fingers, and the cruel, hooked bill would have had no trouble biting through the spine of a deer. Darkwind wondered at the temerity of the dead man who had caught the bird, mage though he was. Vree could kill a man, with enough precision—and had done so in the past. This bird was nearly double Vree’s size, and not only could kill a man, he could do it as easily as Vree killed a rabbit.
If the hawk-eagle hadn’t been of bondbird stock—and hadn’t Mindspoken with such clarity and relative calm, given the situation—Darkwind would never have dared to unhood him. It would have been suicide. The bird could have seriously hurt him, even bound, with a swift stroke of that terrible hooked beak.
When the last binding had been cut, the magnificent hawk-eagle spread wide brown-banded wings to the fullest—and winced, dropping the left one immediately. The wing continued to droop a little, after he had folded the right and tucked it up over his back.
He looked at Darkwind demandingly. :Hurts,: he said. :Chest hurts, wing hurts. Hurt when fell.:
Darkwind ran careful hands over the bird’s breast, and quickly found the problem. A cracked wishbone. There was only one cure for that injury; resting quietly, while the bone set and mended. It would take weeks to heal properly, for bone Healing did not work well on birds, and the great hawk-eagle might never fly with the same ease and freedom again. Winter would bring special problems; cold would make the old injury ache, and the stiffness in the wing would make it harder to catch swift prey.
A tragedy—if he continued to live wild. No special problem—if he lived in the Vale.
But a bondbird, when not bonded as a fledgling or even an eyas, was traditionally given a choice. Freedom, or the bond.
Darkwind explained it to the hawk-eagle in simple terms. If he would come and live in the Vale, his life would be thus. He would bond to Starblade, who was himself wounded and in need of healing…
It was not his imagination; the bird’s interest, dulled by the pain he was in, sharpened at that.
:Show,: he demanded. Darkwind obeyed, showing him mental images of Starblade as he was now—and one of Starblade and his cherished perlin Karry.
:Yes,: the bird said, thoughtfully. :Ye-es.: He dropped his head for a moment, and it seemed to Darkwind that he was thinking. Then his head came up again, and he stared directly into Darkwind’s eyes. :I go—we go to that one,: he ordered, :To warm place, to wounded one. We belong, him, me. Need, him, me.:
And although Darkwind dutifully offered him his continued freedom after healing, the bird refused to consider it. :We go,: he insisted, and Darkwind gave in gladly to him, but with no little wonder. He had never had a bondbird speak so clearly to him—nor had he ever seen one exhibit genuine abstract thought before. There was no doubt in his mind that the bird was quite certain Starblade needed him. And there was no doubt that the bird had responded to that need.
He had heard that the crested hawk-eagles were different, that way—that they had a greater capacity for bonds of affection than any other breed. They often hunted in family groups and shared kills in the wild, something most other raptors never did. But no one in k’Sheyna had one of their kind, so he had only hearsay to go on.
Until now, that is. And he wondered; since no one in k’Sheyna had ever flown the crested hawk-eagles, where had this one come from?
“I was following that, a little,” Elspeth said as she dumped the packs from the mules, leaving them for the hertasi to paw over. “So he does want to come with us?”
“So it would seem,” Darkwind replied, a bit amazed by how readily the bird had fallen in with their idea. Could it be a trap of some kind?
:Stupid,: Vree said contemptuously, from his perch in the tree above. :Hyllarr goes to Vale. Gets good food, warm place, safe place, hunts only when he wants. Gets good friend. Hyllarr wants good friend, mind-friend. Hyllarr flies, he gets winter snow, summer storms, has to hunt, get hurt again, dies alone.:
Darkwind laughed, and so did Elspeth, though she looked a little surprised that she could hear the gyre’s “voice.”
“Put that way, it makes all the sense in the world, doesn’t it,” she said, with a bright sparkle in her eyes. “Here—” she offered her leather-clad arm. “I’ll take him for a moment while you get up on one of those mules. Then I’ll pass him back when you’re mounted.”
Hyllarr looked at her arm for a moment, then directly into her face—and with a delicate care that in no way hid the fact that his talons could pierce through her arm if he chose, he stepped onto her forearm and balanced there while Darkwind hoisted himself onto a mule’s back. Elspeth blanched and inhaled abruptly when Hyllarr dug in while balancing himself.
No point in doing anything with the others. He would leave them to wander or follow as they chose; if they followed his mount to the Vale, someone there could always put them to good use. If they didn’t, they would survive—or not—as their fate and wits decreed.
Elspeth held the hawk-eagle—Hyllarr, she reminded herself—steadily, despite the fact that it was a heavy weight, there on her wrist. But once he got himself settled, and before he could reach out his own wrist to take the bird back, Hyllarr half-spread his wings and hopped from Elspeth’s arm to Darkwind’s shoulder.
He tensed, expecting the talons to close through his leather coat and into the flesh beneath. But Hyllarr shifted a little, getting his balance, and then closed his feet slowly, carefully.
:Hurt?: he asked Darkwind, increasing the pressure a little more.
:No—no—there.: As the claws just pricked his skin, he warned the bird, and Hyllarr eased off just that trifle needed to pull the talons back through the leather.
:Good,: the bird replied with satisfaction. :No hurt. Good. Go to warm place now.:
That was an order, if Darkwind had ever heard one. He turned to Elspeth, to see her own eyes alight with laughter and a little wonder. “I heard him that time!” she exclaimed. “I think—maybe—I’ve got the knack of talking to the bondbirds now. They’re kind of—pitched higher than human mind-voices.”
“Yes, exactly,” he replied, as pleased by her accomplishment as she was. “That’s excellent! Well, then, you heard. We’ve gotten our marching orders.”
She eyed the long, sharp talons—the fierce beak—and grinned. “You know, given where he’s perched right now, I wouldn’t argue with those orders if I were you.”
“I don’t intend to,” he assured her, and kicked the mule into a reluctant walk toward the Vale, Elspeth and Gwena following.
* * *
When Darkwind turned the mule over to the hertasi, he got them to find a stout branch that he could brace across his shoulder and hold with one hand. That gave Hyllarr a much more secure perch, and one that eased Darkwind’s aching shoulder quite a bit. He was going to be very glad when he delivered the bird to his father. After that, Starblade could figure a way to carry him; it would no longer be Darkwind’s problem.
The hawk-eagle reveled in the heat of the Vale, rousing his feathers with a careful shake and raising his crest fully. Darkwind had decided on a tentative approach to his father on the slow ride to the Vale; now it only remained to convince the bird to cooperate.
He got Hyllarr’s attention with a little mental touch, the kind he used with Vree.
:?: Hyllarr replied, definite feelings of relaxation and satisfaction coming along with the reply.
:Starblade is hurt,: he said, hoping he could convey the complex idea in a way the bird would understand.
:Hurt,: Hyllarr agreed. And waited.
That was encouraging. :Starblade is proud,: he continued, showing the bird an image of Hyllarr himself, hurt, but refusing all aid, trying to fly and unable to.
:Proud,: the bird said, agreeing again. Then, :Stupid. Like first year. Try too much.:
:Exactly!: Darkwind said, astonished that the bird understood so much. He was to have an even bigger surprise.
For suddenly, Hyllarr drooped on his shoulder, dropping the injured wing even further. :Hurts,: the bird moaned, making little chirps of distress. :Oh, huuuurts. Need Starblade! Need Starblade, make better!:
Then the bird straightened again, a distinct gleam of humor in the eye nearest Darkwind. :Good?: he asked. :Good for proud Starblade?:
Darkwind wanted to laugh, both at the bird’s astonishing ability to act and at Elspeth’s expression. “I’m as surprised as you are,” he grinned, then returned his attention to the bird.
:Very good!: he replied. :Exactly right!:
The bird roused again with satisfaction. :Hyllarr plays hurt-wing-eyas, Starblade feels good, Hyllarr gets many good eatings, tender eatings, tasty prey, make Hyllarr better. All good.:
“You,” he said, shaking an admonitory finger at the bird, “are going to wind up too fat to fly.”
Hyllarr bobbed his head to follow Darkwind’s fingertip, then blinked in mock drowsiness. Darkwind felt his amusement. He turned his head to look at Elspeth, who was fairly bursting with laughter. “Don’t you dare give this away,” he warned. “I don’t know how Hyllarr managed to grasp it, but Father really does need him. This is going to make all the difference in his recovery, if we don’t ruin everything.”
She nodded. Darkwind smiled his thanks to her.
As soon as they were within sight of Starblade’s ekele, he gave a silent cue to the hawk-eagle, who immediately went into full droop, complete with weak, pathetic chirps.
Weak they might have been, but Starblade heard them readily enough. He appeared at the door of the ekele, leaning against it heavily, with Kethra supporting him from behind, his face full of concern. “Darkwind?” he said, peering down at them in the gloom of late afternoon. “What is wrong with—”
His eyes widened. “That is not Vree!”
Darkwind gave his father a brief version of the rescue. “Hyllarr needs quiet, and someone to care for him, Father. He’s in a lot of pain. I don’t have the time to coax him to eat or keep an eye on that injury—and Kethra’s a Healer, I thought she might be able to help him a little.”
Hyllarr chose just that moment to raise his head and look directly into the elder Hawkbrother’s eyes. :Hurts,: he said plaintively. :Oh, huuuuurts.:
Darkwind suspected that he himself might have worn that stunned expression a time or two. The first time Vree spoke directly into his mind, perhaps. But it was more than he had expected to see it on Starblade’s face.
It was only there for a moment; then it was replaced by concern and something else. A fierce protectiveness—and the unmistakable look of the bondmate for his bird. “Bring him up,” Starblade ordered, turning to go back inside.
Darkwind struggled up the stairs as best he could with the weight of the bird on his shoulders, overbalancing him. He managed to make it to the door of the ekele without mishap, but he had a feeling that the next time Hyllarr went from ground to door, it would be under his own power. Starblade was not going to be up to carrying Hyllarr any time in the near future.
One of the hertasi squeezed by him as he moved inside, and Kethra met him at the door itself. He tensed himself for her disapproval, for Starblade was moving about the room, putting things aside, readying a corner of the place for the “invalid.” But her eyes were twinkling as she asked, “Will he let me touch him?”
“Yes, I think so,” Darkwind replied, and as Kethra placed a gentle hand on the hawk-eagle’s breast-feathers, she leaned in to whisper in Darkwind’s ear.
“You just gave him the best medicine he could have had,” she said softly. “Something to think about beside himself. Something stronger and prouder than he was, that is hurt as badly and needs as much help. Thank you.”
He flushed, and was glad that it wasn’t visible in the darkness of the room.
“He has a cracked keel and wishbone, ke’chara,” Kethra said to Starblade, who had taken spare cushions from beneath the sand pan all Tayledras kept under their birds’ perches, and in the case of Starblade’s ekele, for guests’ bondbirds. “He must be in tremendous pain. It will take a great deal of care for him to fly again.”
“He’ll have it, never fear,” Starblade said, with some of his old strength. “You brought him to the right place, son.”
His eyes met Darkwind’s and once again Darkwind flushed, but this time with pleasure. Starblade actually smiled with no signs of pain, age, or fatigue. Darkwind’s heart leapt. That was his father!
Before he could say anything, the hertasi returned, with two of his fellows. Two of them bore bags of sand for the tray; the third had an enormous block-perch, as tall as the lizard, and very nearly as heavy. The perch went into the tray, and the other two hertasi poured their bags of clean sand all around it, filling it and covering the base of the perch for added stability. Kethra stood aside and watched it all, a calculating but caring expression on her face, curling a length of hair between her fingers.
Darkwind took Hyllarr over to his new perch; the bird made a great show of stepping painfully onto it, but once there, settled in with a sigh; a sigh that Darkwind echoed, as the weight left him. He put a hand to his shoulder and massaged it as he headed toward the exit; Kethra nodded to him with approval.
Starblade took his place beside the perch. The look of rapt attention on his father’s face was all Darkwind could have hoped for, and the look of bliss in the bird’s eyes as Starblade gently stroked under his breast-feathers was very nearly its match.
His partner and her Companion had waited below while he presented Starblade with his new partner. “Well?” Elspeth asked as soon as he got within whispering distance, her face full of pent-up inquiry.
“It worked beautifully,” Darkwind told her. He permitted himself a moment of self-congratulation and a brief embrace, then gestured for her to follow so that there would be no chance of Starblade overhearing them. “He’s already up out of bed and fussing around Hyllarr—it’s a definite match. I don’t think either of them have any idea how well they mesh, but I’ve seen a hundred bondings and this is one of the best.”
“Is Hyllarr going to heal up all right?” she asked, dubiously.
He shrugged. “As long as he isn’t in pain, it doesn’t really matter how completely he heals. Even if the bird never flies again, it won’t make any real difference to Father. Starblade isn’t a scout; he doesn’t need a particularly mobile bondbird. Hyllarr will be able to get by quite well with the kind of short flights a permanently injured bird can manage.”
Elspeth considered that. Gwena nodded. :I see. Injuries that would doom a free bird wouldn’t matter to one that is never likely to leave the Vale. It is relief of pain that matters, not mobility.:
He chuckled his agreement. “In fact, I remember one of the mages from my childhood who had a broken-winged crow that couldn’t fly at all, and walked all over the Vale. If it came to it, Hyllarr could do the same. And be just as pampered.”
Gwena snorted delicately. :That makes an amusing picture; Starblade with the bird following him afoot or, more likely, carried by a hertasi. Well, Hyllarr isn’t going to get fat if he finds himself walking. I doubt that anyone as frail as your father is right now could carry that great hulk.:
“I couldn’t carry him for long,” Darkwind admitted. “I have no idea how scouts bonded to hawk-eagles manage. I thought my shoulders were going to collapse.”
“The important thing is Starblade,” Elspeth pointed out, “and it sounds like having Hyllarr around is going to make the difference for him.”
Darkwind nodded, and then the insistent demands of his stomach reminded him that they were both long overdue for a meal.
Both? No, all. Surely Gwena was just as ravenous.
Unless she and Elspeth, too, were suffering from something that often happened with young mages, where the body was so unused to carrying the energies of magic that basic needs like hunger and thirst were ignored until the mage collapsed. Just as the impetus of fear or anger made the body override hunger and thirst, so did the use of magic—at least until the mage learned to compensate and the body grew used to the energies and no longer confused them.
“If you two aren’t hungry, you should be,” he told them. “Elspeth, I warned you about that happening, but I don’t think I told Gwena; it never occurred to me that she might be susceptible.”
Gwena paused, her eyes soft and thoughtful for a moment. :I should be starving. Hmm. I think I shall find a hertasi, and have a good grain ration. If you’ll excuse me?:
With a bow of her head, she trotted up the trail, leaving them alone.
“A wise lady,” he observed. “Let’s drop by Iceshadow’s ekele long enough to give him the good news from k’Treva, and then take this conversation to somewhere there’s food for us.”
Elspeth grinned. “I think I’m used to magic enough now because my stomach is wrapping around my backbone and complaining bitterly. Let’s go!”
Iceshadow was overjoyed at the good news from k’Treva and almost as pleased with the news about Starblade. They left him full of plans to inform the rest of the mages, and with unspoken agreement, reversed their course, back to the mouth of the Vale.
There were “kitchens” on the way, but somehow, that “somewhere” wound up being Darkwind’s ekele, where his hertasi had left a warm meal waiting. The hertasi information network was amazing; word must have gotten around the moment they’d crossed into the Vale. Before them were crisp finger vegetables and small, broiled gamehens; bread and cheese, fruit, and hot chava with beaten cream for two for dessert. Darkwind dearly loved chava, a hot, sweet drink with a rich taste like nothing else in the world. Sometimes the hertasi could be coaxed into making a kind of thick cookie with chava, and the two together were enough to put any sweet-lover into spasms of ecstasy.
And while he had a moment of suspicion over the fact that the hertasi had left food and drink for two, he had to admit that they had done so before. And given his past, perhaps the preparation was not unwarranted. Until Elspeth had entered his life, he had certainly eaten and slept in company more often than not. This was a lovers’ meal, though. And they knew very well that he had not had any lovers since they had begun serving him. Was this an expression of hope on their part? Or something else?
Well, the chava could be used as bait to tempt Elspeth into his bed, that was certain. He knew any number of folk who would do astonishing things for—even with—the reward of chava.
It was Elspeth’s first encounter with chava, and Darkwind took great glee in her expression of bliss the moment she tasted it. Once again, another devotee was created. They took their mugs over to the pile of cushions in the corner that served as seating and lounging area.
“You look just like Hyllarr when Starblade started scratching him,” he told her, chuckling. “All half-closed eyes and about to fall over with pleasure.”
“No doubt,” she replied, easing back against the cushions with the mug cradled carefully in her hand, so as not to spill a single drop. “Complete with raptorial beak, predator’s eyes, and unruly crest.”
She spoke lightly, but Darkwind sensed hurt beneath the words. That was the same hurt he had sensed when she spoke of being afraid that most men were interested only in her rank, not in her. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
She snorted, and shook her head. “Darkwind, I thought we were going to be honest with each other. I’ve mentioned this before, I know I have. Can you honestly say that I am not as plain as a board?”
He studied her carefully before he answered; the spare, sculptured face, the expressive eyes, the athletic figure, none of which were set off to advantage by unadorned, white, plain-edged clothing—or, for that matter, the drab scout gear she wore now. The thick, dark hair—which he had never seen styled into anything other than an untamed tumble or pulled back into a tail. “I think,” he replied, after a moment, “that you have been doing yourself a disservice in the way you dress. With your white uniform washing out your color and no ornaments, you look very functional, certainly quite competent and efficient, but severe.”
“What I said: plain as a board.” She sipped her chava, hiding her face in her cup. “I like the colored things the hertasi have been leaving out for me, but they don’t make much difference that I can see.”
“No,” he corrected. “Not ‘plain as a board.’ Improperly adorned. Scout gear is still too severe to display you properly. You should try mage-robes. Mages need not consider impediments such as strolls through bramble tangles.”
Many Tayledras costumes were suited to either sex; Elspeth, with her lean figure, would not distort the lines of some of his own clothing. There were a number of costumes he had designed and made, long ago, that he had never worn, or worn only once or twice. When Songwind became Darkwind, and the mage became the scout, those outfits had been put away in storage as inappropriate to the scout’s life. They were memories that could be hidden.
And, truthfully, he had not wanted to see them again. They belonged to someone else, another life, another time. Their cheerful colors had been ill-suited to his grief and his anger. He had not, in fact, even worn them now that he was a mage again and in the Vale, though he had brought them out of storage, with the vague notion that he might want them.
They were here, now, in this new ekele, in chests in one of the upper rooms. He studied her for a moment, considering which of those half-remembered robes would suit her best.
The ruby-firebird first, he decided. The amber silk, the peacock-blue, the sapphire, and the emerald. Perhaps the tawny shirt and fawn breeches—no, too light, they will wash her out. Hmm. I should go and see what is there; I can’t recall the half of them.
“Wait here,” he said, and before she could answer, ran up the ladderlike stair to the storage room at the top of the ekele.
Maybe the tawny with a black high-necked undergarment for contrast…
He returned with his arms full of clothing; robes and half-robes, shirts and flowing breeches in the Shin’a’in style, vests and wrap-shirts, all in jewel-bright colors, made of soft silks and supple leathers, and scented with the cedar of the chests. Light clothing, all of it, made for the gentle warmth of the Vale. There were other mage-robes, heavier, made to be worn outside the Vale, but none of those were as extravagant as these outfits. Tayledras mages did not advertise their powers in outrageous costumes when outside the confines of their homes, unless meeting someone they knew, or knew would be impressed.
“Here—” he said, shaking out the ruby-colored silk half-robe and matching Shin’a’in breeches, cut as full as a skirt, and bound at the ankles with ribbon ties. The half-robe had huge, winglike sleeves with scalloped edges, and an asymmetric hem. “Try this one on, while I find some hair ornaments.”
She stared at him, at the clothing, and back again, as if he had gone quite mad. “But—”
He grinned at her. “Indulge me. This is my art, if you will, and it has been long since I was able to spare a moment for it. Go on, go on—if you’re modest, there’s a screen over there you can stand behind to dress.”
He turned to his collection of feathers and beads, crystals and silver chains, all hung like the works of art they were, on the walls. By the hertasi, of course; when he’d lived outside the Vale he’d had no time to sort through the things and hang them up properly. They winked and gleamed in the light from his lamps and candles as he considered them. Some of them he had made, but most had been created by other Tayledras. Most of them, sadly, were either dead or with the exiles. But the delicate works of their hands remained, to remind him that not every hour need be spent in war and defense.
After a moment he heard Elspeth rise and take the clothing behind the screen; heard cloth sliding against cloth and flesh as she undressed, then the softer, hissing sounds of silk against that same flesh. He closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on how good it felt to be doing this again—after all that had happened, that there was still a skill he could use without thought of what it meant tactically.
A moment later, she slipped from behind the screen, and he heard her bare footfalls against the boards of the ekele floor. “I hope I have this stuff on right,” she said dubiously, as he selected three strands of hair ornaments from among those on the wall.
He turned, his hands full of beaded firebird feathers, and smiled with pleasure at the sight of her.
She made a sour face, and twisted awkwardly. “I look that silly, do I?”
“On the contrary, you look wonderful.” She pursed her lips, then smiled reluctantly. He admired her for a moment; as he had thought, the variegated, rich rubies and wines of the half-robe heightened her otherwise dull coloring. With her face tanned by the wind and sun, and her dark brown hair, without the help of color reflected up from her clothing, it was no surprise that she thought herself plain. But now, she glowed, and her hair picked up auburn highlights from the ruby-red silks. And with her hair braided and ornamented instead of being simply pulled back from her face—
She is going to look magnificent when her hair turns white, he thought admiringly. But now—no, this severe style is not going to work. Color’s a bit too strong. It looks wrong now.
Before she could move, or even protest, he had his hands buried in her hair, braiding the beaded cords of feathers into one side. Then he created a browband with another cord, pulling some of the rest of her hair with it across her forehead to join the braid on the other side. It didn’t take long; her hair was ridiculously short by mage-standards, and even many of the scouts wore theirs far longer than hers. But when released from that severe tail, it had a soft, gentle wave that went well with the braids and beaded feathers.
“There,” he said, turning her to face the mirror that had been left covered, as was customary, with an embroidered cloth. He whisked the cloth away, revealing her new image to her eyes. “I defy you to call yourself plain now.”
Her mouth formed into a silent “Oh” of surprise as she stared at the exotic stranger in the mirror. She flushed, then paled, then flushed again, and her whole posture relaxed and softened.
“I would give a great deal to see you appear in your Court dressed this way,” he said, a little smugly. He was rather proud of the way she looked in his handiwork. Better than he had imagined, in fact. “I think that you would set entirely new fashions.”
She moved carefully, holding out her arms to see the fall of the sleeves, twirling to watch the material slip about her legs and hips, her eyes sparkling with unexpected pleasure. “I had no idea. The last time I wore anything like this, it was for Talia’s wedding. I was a cute little girl, but, well, cuteness wears off. I never thought I could look like this.” She shook her head, her eyes still riveted to the mirror. “I thought that the clothing the hertasi had been leaving for me was nice, but compared to this—”
“Scout’s clothing, it was, really,” he said, with a shrug. “Quite as practical as your Herald uniforms. Mages tend to prefer more fanciful garb, and certainly more comfortable. These are for delight. Showing off. Dancing. Display, as our birds do, for the sheer joy of doing so, or for—” Before she could respond to that, he had picked out a full robe in monochrome intensities of vivid blue. “Come,” he said, coaxingly. “Let us try another. I wish to see you in all of these.”
“Me? What about you?”
“What about me?” he repeated, puzzled. “What have I to do with this?”
“You’re a mage, aren’t you? And aren’t these your costumes?” She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. “I’d like to see what you look like in these things!”
Try as he would, he could not dissuade her. Before she would consent, she insisted that if she was going to prance about in bright feathers, he would have to do the same. So nothing would have it but that he must don a set of dancing gear before she would change her costume for another. The evening hours passed, the two of them playing among the costumes like a pair of children at dress-up, laughing and admiring together.
Some time later, he had draped her in a swath of amber-gold that brought sunlike highlights to her hair and a Tayledras-sheen to her skin. Any of the vivid colors suited her, but she glowed in the warm colors, he had decided. This particular robe, though he did not tell her so, was a lounging robe—a dalliance robe, in fact. A lover’s robe. Meant for display to one person, not to many. He had made it for himself, but had not liked the color once he had tried it on—one of the few times he had misjudged color for himself.
But on her—
“You must keep that,” he whispered, as she turned and twisted, plainly taking sensuous pleasure in the soft slip of the silk against her skin. “No, indeed, you must,” he insisted, as she turned to protest. “It was never suited to me, but I think I must have somehow designed it with you in mind.”
The words had been meant to come out teasingly, but somehow, they turned in his mouth and hung in the air between them with more meaning in them than he had intended. He reached delicately to a glass box and opened it, and before he knew what he was doing, he reached toward her, his hand holding a single brightly beaded feather.
Not one of Vree’s—though at this moment, he would have offered her that, if he had thought she might take it. But he dared not. He hardly believed that he dared this.
She knew what that meant now—and as she stared at it and at him with her expression gone quiet and unreadable, he feared that he had just undone all that had been built between them.
But her hand reached for his—and gently took the feather.
And carefully, as if it, or she, might break, she braided it into her hair, then took a deep breath, her eyes wide and dark, waiting.
They both stepped forward at the same moment; he reached up with both hands and cupped her face between them, as carefully as he would grasp a downy day-old falcon. Her skin was as soft as the washed silk she wore, and very warm beneath his hands, as if she was flushed or feverish. It occurred to him then that she might—no, must—be shy, of him, and of what was to come; with a last, weary exercise of his magic, he dimmed the mage-lights.
The comparison and the contrast was inevitable; this was no Dawnfire. Elspeth, for all her courage elsewhere, all her eagerness, was trembling and half-frightened with him. It came to him in a rush how far away from her home she was—all the trials she had faced, and now this—it was up to him to take the lead. She was unsure of herself and not certain what he wanted of her, but there was desire there.
So, he would go as gently with her as he would with caring for a frightened wild bird. She was not likely a virgin, but it did not necessarily follow that she was experienced in lovemaking; he could by accident frighten her with a technique she had never experienced. With all sincerity, he hoped there would be ample times in the future to explore.
He kissed her, once, then dropped his hands, catching hers, and led her back to the bower of cushions on the floor. He slowly drew her down beside him, and there they stayed while he caressed her, letting the silk slide over her body beneath his hands. He touched her gently; shoulders, back, breasts, neck—let the silk carry the movement of his hands. She shivered again, but now it was not from half-formed fear, but from anticipation.
Her lips parted in a gentle moan of pleasure, and she lay her head back with a visible expression of delight.
After a moment, she returned his caresses, hesitantly at first, then with more boldness. Her hands wandered as freely as his, and he kept careful control over himself, lest he move too quickly with her.
But it had been a very long time since his last lover… a very long time. Controlling himself was as difficult as any magic he had ever attempted.
Now they drew closer, and her lips met his.
If he had any thoughts until that moment that she might regret having accepted his feather, they were dismissed by the eagerness with which she returned his kiss. He allowed his mind to brush hers for a moment, as his mouth opened for her. He garnered two important things from that brief contact; she was by no means as experienced a lover as he, but she was as perfectly willing to be his pupil in this as in the other subjects he had taught her. She had confidence in his skill abed.
So, take things slowly. The greater her desire, the calmer at first, the more fully she felt their bodies, the better the experience.
He slid his hands under the silk of the robe, and continued his slow, sensual caresses; continued until any thought of fear was a long-forgotten triviality. Then he joined his mind to hers, very lightly, and showed her wordlessly what would pleasure him, as he noted what pleasured her. She was soft silk in his hands, and warm honey in his mouth; feather-caress and nectar. Her scent was of sandalwood, cinnamon, and herbs. His was of musk and rich chava. Her skin tasted salty-sweet, and where their bodies touched, liquid fire poured between them.
When their minds were so entwined that there was no telling where one ended and the other began, only then did he join his body into hers.
A pair of hawks spiraling slowly up a thermal, talons entwined, they rose together, and soared into the sun…
* * *
Elspeth lay in silk and warmth, and thought of absolutely nothing, content to savor the warm glow that bathed every pore. Content to listen to Darkwind breathing beside her. Content, for the moment, to forget everything she was, and simply be.
Darkwind lay quietly beside her, his breathing slow and even. She listened to him, thinking that sleep could not be far off for her, either, but hoping to hold it away a little longer, and savor the moment.
“I trust I achieved your expectations.”
She started; he laid a calming hand on her shoulder, and she laughed, breathlessly, willing her heart to calm. “I thought you were asleep,” she said. “I mean, you sounded like you were.”
“That would be unforgivably crude,” Darkwind replied, with just a hint of laughter in his voice. “At least, it would be by our customs.”
She thought of the few—to be honest, three—lovers she had taken to her bed, not counting the almost-lover whose tryst Talia had interrupted so long ago. Skif had never been one of them—which might have accounted for the way he had overreacted when they were alone on the road together. They were all friends, she and her lovers, but never more than that, and they had trysted with the understanding that it would remain that way. Heralds, all of them, of course; Talia had been right about that. Only a Herald could be trusted to be completely discreet about making love with the Heir. Two of them had always fallen asleep immediately afterward, and she had slipped out of their rooms to return to her own.
Oh, they were always tired, she thought, in their defense. And no sooner were they rested than they were haring off again, out on circuit. They couldn’t help it. And it would have been an awful scandal for me to act openly as their lover.
Neave never fell asleep, but then he never ever fell asleep with anyone else in his bed. He couldn’t. Not after what he’d been through. He was healing, but sometimes she wondered if he would ever really be healed. Perhaps not. And her times with him had been as much comfort for him as lovemaking. Oh, he was skilled; he’d had no choice but to learn skill… poor child. How anyone could make a child into an object like that; to use a child, an unconsenting, terrified child—
She deliberately turned her thoughts away from the past. “I think I could learn to like your customs,” she said, keeping her tone light. “It seems a bit more civilized than to simply roll over and forget one’s partner when the moment is gone.”
“Well, but it is no jest, not really,” he replied, with a finger-brush along her cheek. “Wait a moment—”
He gently disentangled himself from her, and with a whisper of cloth, faded into the darkness. Her ears strained to hear what he was doing, but she could not make anything out except some vague sounds of moving about.
He returned in a moment, and took his place beside her again; felt for her hand, and pressed a cool cup into it. She sipped, and found that it was delightfully cold and sweet water. Before she knew it, she had drained the cup, and feeling for a secure place to put it, set it down on a table beside her with a sigh.
“Sometimes I suspect the hertasi of prescience,” he said, after a moment. “A meal for two waiting, chava for two to inflame the senses, with cool water waiting with two cups to quench the thirst—”
She chuckled. “Maybe. Is that one of your customs? Pampering your partner?”
“Oh, the custom is simpler than that,” he replied, setting his cup down somewhere with a faint tick. “It is that one does not simply fall asleep without expressing one’s delight in one’s partner.” His voice was warm with approval, and she found herself blushing.
“That is a most civilized custom,” she replied, after a moment. “And,” she groped for something to say that would not make her blush even harder, “consider it expressed.”
“Would you care to accept my feather in the future, Wingsib?” he persisted.
She couldn’t help it; she flushed so hotly that she feared she must be glowing in the dark. “I—would very much like it,” she stammered.
“Ah, now I embarrass you, forgive me,” he said quickly. “We are a forward people, we Tayledras. The Shin’a’in claim that like kestrels, we have no shame. But I hope you will not take it amiss that I am very glad to hear your reply.”
“No—no, not at all.” Oh, she must sound like a schoolchild in the throes of infatuation!
“Thank you, bright lady.” That gentle hand touched her cheek again, and this time, he did not withdraw. “Are you rested?” he asked, his finger tracing a line down her cheek, then further down, along the line of her throat.
“I—think so—” she stammered again. What was he about?
“Well, then—there is another custom,” he chuckled, “Which is why the Shin’a’in compare us to kestrels… in more than being shameless.”
Then to her astonishment, he pressed gently against her, and began all over again.
At first she was too surprised to respond, but her astonishment did not outlive the realization that he was quite serious. And quite intent.
And quite, quite splendid.
* * *
This time, she brought the water, with help from a tiny mage-light to find where the hertasi had left the pitcher. He accepted it with a sleepy smile, and a kiss in the palm of her hand.
She took her place beside him, quite certain that even if she had wanted to, her legs would not have carried her as far as her own ekele. And she didn’t want to leave, not really. Her bed was cold and lonely, and Darkwind was warm and quite ready to cradle her in his arms.
Who would she outrage, anyway? Not Gwena. Not the hertasi. Not any of the Hawkbrothers, who partnered whomever they pleased. Even Skif could not take her to task. There were no Court gossips here. No word of this would get back to scandalize whatever potential bridegrooms there might be.
Not that there seemed to be any in the offing. Nothing would persuade her to wed Ancar, and it was not likely that Karse had any royal sons to wed to satisfy an alliance… her mother had satisfied any need for bonds with Rethwellan. Who would she wed? Some fur-covered hulk from the North? They didn’t even have any government; they were a series of warring tribes.
Perhaps she could choose a partner to suit herself…
“And now,” Darkwind whispered, “custom satisfied—I fear—I must sleep—” A yawn punctuated the sentence, and she found herself echoing it.
“Custom satisfied—” she yawned again “—I agree—”
“Then, good night—” he whispered. “Zhai’helleva—”
Sleep had her by the shoulders and was dragging her down into darkness. But had she heard what she thought she heard?
Had he whispered, with the sigh of one drifting into slumber, “Zhai’helleva, ashke?”
Wind to thy wings—beloved?
* * *
The hertasi brought her clothing and laid it beside breakfast for two without so much as a single eyeblink to show that they considered her spending the night anything out of the ordinary. Gwena appeared shortly afterward, to tell them that they had been relieved of the duty of chasing away what had been attracted by their profligate use of power. And even her Companion had nothing to say on her choice of sleeping places and partners.
:Iceshadow approved of your choice of nonweaponry,: she told them. :Illusions make a less visible use of power. He has some other mages out there doing what you did—with backups, of course, in case the beasties don’t frighten away. Right now he wants you to meet with him and the Elders and anyone else that is free—he’s holding a Clanwide general meeting.:
“I assume he wants us to tell them all exactly what the message said?” Darkwind replied after a moment of thought, as he braided his hair away from his face.
:Probably. He didn’t tell me.: She tossed her head with feigned indignation, but Elspeth could tell that she didn’t mean it. :I told him that it was my opinion that you two needed a day of rest, anyway. He seemed inclined to agree. His exact words were “as much rest as the Clan can afford them, at any rate.”
Darkwind chuckled. “Meaning that we are still on call. Ah, well. It is better than being out in the snow!”
They ate slowly, Elspeth being very aware of Darkwind’s eyes lingering on her, and being unable to resist taking a few, long, lingering glances herself.
He certainly provided a pleasant place to rest the eyes. He no longer seemed so exotic—although he did look a bit odd, with white showing at the roots of his hair; she couldn’t help but think of certain “blonde” ladies whose hair often showed the opposite coloration at its roots. It no longer seemed strange to have the bondbird sitting beside them, taking bits of raw meat from Darkwind’s fingers. For that matter, it no longer seemed revolting to eat her breakfast and watch the bird bolting his tidbits…
She remembered, then, that she had been able to hear the bird yesterday. Was that still true?
Well, why not test it?
:Vree?: she called, tentatively, pitching her mind-voice up high, trying to reach the same place she had Heard him.
The bird looked up, startled, and immediately turned his head upside down to look at her.
:?: he Sent. :!:
“Yes, she’s speaking to you, silly bird,” Darkwind said lightly, with an approving glance at her that warmed her all the way down to her toes. “It’s considered polite to answer.”
:Ye-es?: Vree replied, cautiously, righting his head again.
:How is Hyllarr?: she asked, figuring that was an innocent enough question, and one the bird should be able to answer easily enough.
:Hungry. Healing. Happy.: Vree roused all his feathers, evidently tickled by his own alliteration. :Very good. Is good bonding.:
:Thank you,: she told him, and he bobbed his head at her before turning his attention back to Darkwind’s tidbits.
“Why can I talk to him now when I couldn’t before?” she asked, hoping he knew the answer.
“I think—mostly because you know now that he Mind-speaks, so you began listening unconsciously for where he was Speaking,” Darkwind hazarded. “The gryphons Speak high, but in the ranges you were listening in already—but listening to them made you ready to listen even higher. I think. I don’t think that you are developing a new Gift.”
“Good,” she replied, a little relieved. “One at a time is enough.”
He laughed, and fed Vree the last bit of meat. “Shall we go?” he asked, standing up and offering her his hand.
* * *
The meeting was relatively uneventful, until Starblade put in an appearance. He leaned heavily on Kethra and a walking stick, and sat down immediately, but it was already obvious that despite his physical weakness there was new life in his eyes, and new hope in his spirit.
He listened to both of them recount what they remembered of the message, and waited for the buzz of conversation to die down, before clearing his throat to speak.
He got immediate silence.
“Before any of you speculate,” he said, carefully, “Yes—k’Treva did send mages to see if we needed help immediately after the Stone shattered. And I did turn them away, with protests that we were fully capable of dealing with the situation ourselves. You all know why I did that. I am sorry. But this may have been all to the good, in some ways. When they offered help, the healing Adept of which they speak had only just come into his power. Now he is at full strength. Had he tried to deal with the Stone as it was, it might have killed him and the rest of us as well. Certainly it would have damaged him, and our great enemy would have had a way into the power of a Healing Adept as a result. And that would have been even more of a catastrophe.”
Murmurs around the circle showed that most of the Clan agreed with him. Elspeth didn’t even want to think about Mornelithe Falconsbane having that much power. The little that she had seen of him had convinced her that he had been far too powerful as it was.
“Now—” Starblade continued, “I believe that with the help of Darkwind, Wingsib Elspeth, honored Gwena, and our gryphon allies, all will be well. But I am only one. I think that every voice should be heard in this. It is the fate of our entire Clan that we are discussing.”
Elspeth followed as much as she could, but the Hawkbrothers were more than a bit agitated, and as a result, spoke a little faster than she preferred. She gathered that they were, on the whole, inclined to agree with Starblade, but they had been deceived before and were determined to do what they could to see that it did not happen again.
As the meeting went on, Starblade wilted visibly—yet seemed stubbornly determined to remain and prove that he was no longer acting against the good of the Clan. Finally Elspeth couldn’t stand it any more. She stood up.
All eyes focused on her, and the babble of speech cut off, abruptly, leaving her standing in silence.
“I haven’t endured what you have,” she said, slowly. “And I haven’t been a mage for very long. I’ve certainly never seen a Healing Adept, so I have no idea what they can or can’t do. But we took a lot of time preparing that message; we told k’Treva everything we knew, in as much detail as we could. Surely, since they were already worried about us, this Adept they are sending has had time to prepare for trouble! Surely he comes not only armed but armored!”
She sat down again, wondering if she’d managed to insult all of them, or if she’d made some sense.
Evidently the latter, since she saw Iceshadow smiling, slowly, and there was very little muttering and much nodding of heads.
“Has everyone said what is needed?” Iceshadow asked, once the last of the muttering died down. He looked about, but no one seemed inclined to jump to his or her feet. “Very well, then, I—”
The bottom dropped out of Elspeth’s stomach, and although she hadn’t moved, it felt as if she had suddenly plummeted about five feet.
What in— She looked wildly about. Was it an attack? Had something gone wrong with the Stone?
But no one else seemed alarmed, and she calmed her pounding heart. Iceshadow actually grinned at the expression on her face, whatever it was.
It probably looks like someone hit me in the back of the head with a board.
“That, I think, makes the rest of the arguments moot,” Iceshadow said. “So, if no one has any objection, I will declare the meeting closed.”
Under cover of the rest standing up and moving off in twos and threes or more, Elspeth leaned over to Darkwind and asked, “And just what was that? Was that an earthquake? I’ve heard of them, but—”
“Not an earthquake, no, although I am told that the feeling is very similar, save that the earth itself does not move,” Darkwind replied. “No, that was the establishing and closing of a long-ranging Gate that you just felt. Very abrupt—probably to keep from disrupting the Stone too much. Normally the flux is much more gradual and less noticeable.”
“You mean—”
He took her hand and squeezed it, his smile inviting her to share in his triumph. “Yes. At last. There is very little that is likely to stop him. And there is no more chance for argument. Our help is on the way. We have won.”
Darkwind took nothing about Elspeth for granted, but when she returned with him to his ekele, he thought it reasonable to assume that she was not displeased with him in the clear light of day. He had not been certain; she was so self-possessed, she rarely revealed what was in her mind. As important as her mind, he was not certain what the reaction of her Companion would be to their assignation, despite the fact that Gwena had left them alone together.
But there were inevitable awkward moments to come. The early moments of a new liaison were always full of such things… when neither knows quite what to say or do, and neither is familiar enough with the other to read body and voice. Trying not to appear too distant, yet not wanting to seem possessive, making the dance moves of courtship and trying not to stumble through them—all of this was universal.
He paused at the foot of the stairs and cleared his throat at the same time that she said, “Darkwind—”
They looked at each other and laughed self-consciously.
“I was about to suggest that we take advantage of our temporary freedom to soak away some bruises,” he said, offering a neutral occupation which had the potential to become something else entirely. In this, at least, he had more experience than she. He had sky-danced through a fair number of courtships. “The hertasi are skilled at massage, if you like. They use carved wooden rollers instead of claws, and thick oils.”
She stretched in a way that suggested that she might well be suffering from sore muscles, stiffly, and with a little wince of pain, rather than coyly or provocatively. “I would like that,” she replied. Then she smiled, wryly. “Now the pertinent question—were you thinking of soaking in the same pool as me, or going off on your own? I would enjoy your company, but I won’t be upset if you’d like to have some time to yourself.” Her smile became a grin. “Astera knows you’ve seen quite enough of me and my over-sharp tongue. I wouldn’t blame you if you’d like a respite!”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d join me, but in the pool near your tree,” he said, relieved at her words, and even more so at the touch of self-deprecating humor. “Yours is the warmest pool in the Vale. I will ask my hertasi to bring oils, once I find them. They haven’t established a summoning method yet.”
“Shall I meet you there?” she suggested gracefully. “You’ve got things to do—and I’m still something of an appendage to the Clan.”
It didn’t take him too long to find the two lizard-folk; it took him even less time to make his way to the pool he now thought of as “Elspeth’s.” But by the time he got there, she was already chin-deep in hot water, her hair piled up on the top of her head and her eyes half-closed in pleasure.
“We must have slipped and fallen in the snow a hundred times. I have bruises in places I didn’t even guess at. I have got to find some way to reproduce these pools once I get back home,” she said, as he shed clothing and joined her. “A hot bath is no substitute for this.”
The two lizard-folk busied themselves in setting up cushions and towels beside the pool; once they were ready, he and Elspeth could go to their skillful hands with their muscles warm and pliant. Much easier to take the knots out of muscles that were relaxed and warmed than those that were stiff and tense.
“Have you no hot springs in your homeland?” he asked lazily, slipping into the hot water with a sigh of pleasure. “I would find that very strange.”
“You would find a lot of things about my land very strange,” she said. “At least as strange as Skif and I find the Vale. And speaking of Skif—”
He felt a chill in spite of the heat of the water. Was she about to reveal that she and Skif were betrothed, or something of the sort? While he had no claims on her, nor had any right to think of such things—the idea disturbed him in a way that he did not want to examine too closely.
But she was continuing, and there was nothing in her tone to give him any kind of clue to her feelings about the other Herald. “Speaking of Skif—Darkwind, what should I do about Nyara? If—when he finds her. Should I worry? Should I even try to do anything?”
“I do not know,” he said, carefully, choosing his words in the hopes that they would not turn to stones and bruise his already shaken pride. “First I must ask you this—what is Skif to you?”
“To me?” She opened her eyes and looked him full in the face, and he was relieved to see that there was nothing hiding there. No hitherto undisclosed passions. No pain. Only simple concern. “My very good friend. My blood-brother. My—Wingsib, if you will, for the Heralds are the closest thing to a Tayledras Clan that my people know. He has no other kin but the Heralds, and I’m one of the closest friends he has among them. I’m worried about him, Darkwind.”
There was something she hadn’t told him yet. “Why should you worry?” he asked. “He seems perfectly capable to me.”
She sighed, and chewed her lower lip. “I’ve known him a long time, and the Skif you know isn’t the Skif I first made my brother. I haven’t talked to anyone about this, but something happened to him a couple of years ago, something to do with the war with Hardorn, and it changed him. He hasn’t been the same since. But he never said anything to me about it, and I don’t feel that I should press him on the subject. I mean, he values his privacy.”
He considered her words for a moment, hoping that the relief he felt on learning that Skif was no more than a brother to her did not show too clearly. But changes in a personality—oh, he was all too familiar with that. Though this was not likely to be the kind of sinister change that had overcome Starblade.
No, more like the change of shock that had made Songwind become Darkwind.
“I think that if it was something he felt comfortable about revealing to you, he would have done so,” he said carefully. “That may have been because he considered you to be too sheltered to reveal it, because he was ashamed of it, or even because you are female and he is male. Do I take it that this experience—whatever it was—damaged him in some way?”
“Not physically, but he was never as—carefree afterward,” she replied thoughtfully. “Yes, I would say that it damaged him. Probably all three reasons have something to do with why he has never told me about it.”
“In that case, he might well reveal it to Wintermoon,” Darkwind mused aloud. “That would be a good thing. My brother is a remarkable man and has his own burdens he might be pleased to reveal. That would be a good thing as well.”
She gave him a glance filled with hope and speculation. “Do you think so? He’s been so—I don’t know. Before, he was always eager for the next adventure. Now it seems as if adventure has soured for him, and all he’s looking for is peace. And I think that Nyara just might be able to ease some of what is hurting him. If she doesn’t hurt him further.”
“A good point. I do not think that she would do so a-purpose,” he said, raising a dripping hand from the water to rub his temple. “She has been both cause and receiver of too much harm to wish to work further such, I think.” Nyara… oh, there was a potential to become the lash of a whip if not carefully dealt with. “But there is pain waiting for him, with that one, be she ever so well-intentioned.”
Elspeth nodded. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking. If he—no, when he finds her, if she is not in love with him, he’s going to be hurt.”
“Would it were only as simple as that. You know that if she does love him and ran to save him before for that reason, he is destined for even greater hurt.” Darkwind raised himself a little higher in the water, rested his arms on the ledge around the pool, and propped his head on one hand. “You must know that, Elspeth. Think on it. Suppose she loves him truly. Suppose she accepts his love. My people would have trouble in accepting a Changechild as the lover of one of their kin. But yours? To them, will she not seem a monster?”
She groaned, and rubbed her eyes. “I wish I could tell you no, but I can’t. Gods, Darkwind, the Shin’a’in are looked at askance when a rare one comes to Valdemar. The Hawkbrothers are legends only. They’d try to put her in a menagerie!” She shook her head. “No matter what we did, how we tried to disguise her, I doubt it would hold for long.”
“Soon or late, any disguise is unmade, any illusion is broken,” he agreed. “Nor is that the only problem with Nyara. She is utterly, totally foreign. Her ways could never be yours. Gods of my fathers, her ways are utterly alien to my people! Among yours, she would be like unto a plains-cat given a collar and called a pet!”
Elspeth groaned. “And that—that aura of sexuality she has—that isn’t going to win her any converts, I can tell you that. Havens, she even made me annoyed, sometimes, and there was nothing for me to be irritated with her over!”
“Except that every male eye must ever be on her,” he said ruefully. “Be he ever so faithful to his lover, he still must react to her like a male beast in season! Even I—well, I entertained fantasies, and I knew well the danger she implied. You say that Skif seems to seek only peace. Well, he will not find it with that one on his arm! Every male with no manners will be trying to have her for himself. Every female will react as you—or more strongly.”
“And she can’t help herself.” Elspeth’s mouth quirked in a half smile at his confession, but she quickly sobered. “Darkwind, what should I do?”
“Should you do anything?” he countered. “Can you do anything? Is there even any advice that you could give him that he would heed?”
She shook her head sadly. “Probably not. I guess there’s only one thing I can do—to be ready for whatever decision he and she make.”
“That is all that a friend can do, Elspeth,” he agreed. “And I think perhaps that is all that a friend should do. But you know, there is another course that he might take that you do not seem to have considered. What would you and your people think if he should choose to stay here—with her?”
“If he—” She stared at him now as if the very idea were so alien that she couldn’t quite grasp it. “But he’s a Herald!”
“He is also a human—and a man. And he is very much in love.” Darkwind had a fleeting feeling of disorientation, as if he were not talking only about the Herald Skif. “Would your people make him choose between his love and his land? Would this cause his Companion to abandon him?”
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. “The subject has never come up.”
“Interesting.” He leaned back into the water again. “Perhaps you and Gwena should discuss this at length. I have the feeling that it may be important.”
“So do I,” she replied, slowly. “So do I…”
* * *
The Adept from k’Treva did not appear by nightfall, at which point Darkwind felt that he had most probably taken the wise course of finding a secure place to rest for the night. When he and Elspeth sought out Iceshadow just after dusk, the Elder said words to that same effect.
“I do not think our Clansbrother is likely to arrive on our doorstep until the morning,” Iceshadow predicted, as the three of them strolled back to the Elder’s ekele. “Were I he, I would find a tervardi and share his shelter for the night. I have sensed nothing amiss, and I think if he were in trouble, we would certainly know it.”
Darkwind nodded. Very few Tayledras traveled by night by choice. Even fewer did so in unknown and possibly dangerous territory. “He knows that our borders are shrunken, and that the land within them is not certain. The heavy snows of the past few days have probably slowed him down. I doubt the one who replied took the difficulties of winter riding into account when he sent the message and told you the Adept would arrive in half a day. Even on dyheli I would not undertake to go anywhere in this snow in half a day.”
They reached Iceshadow’s home at that moment; the Elder stretched, and paused with one hand on the railing. “I would not worry, were I you. I am not concerned. We will see this marvel when he arrives and not before, and the matter of one or two days more is not going to make a great deal of difference to our situation. True?”
When they agreed, he chuckled, and bid them a pleasant evening, a certain twinkle in his eyes as he looked from Elspeth to Darkwind and back.
Not that Darkwind minded the delay. Once the Healing Adept arrived, he and Elspeth would start on a round of magic-use that would leave them quite exhausted at day’s end. He knew that from experience. Sadly, heavy magic-use tended to leave one too weary for dalliance. They would have one more night together, at least—
Or so he hoped.
This time, since they were so near, she had invited him to her ekele for supper, while the hertasi turned them both into limp yarn dolls. At the time he had thought he saw Faras, the one working on her back, smile a little when she made the invitation. He said nothing, though, then or now; she knew that the lizard-folk used Mindspeech as easily as humans used their voices. Though what she might not know was the way the little folk liked to play at matchmaking…
They took a second soak in the pool, then slipped into a pair of thick robes that the hertasi had left there for them, leaving the pool when dusk was only a memory and full darkness shrouded the Vale. Darkwind was not certain how Elspeth felt, but he had not been so relaxed or content for a very long time. He followed her up to her ekele, pretty well certain of what he would find there.
He was not disappointed. The robe of amber silk, clean again, was waiting for her—and his favorite, of deep blue, lay beside it across the cushions. And on the table there waited another intimate supper for two. This one was a bit different, though.
He recognized it, though she would not have. This was a lovers’ supper, a trysting meal. Sensual delights. Things to tease the palate and the four senses. Light foods, the kind found at festivals, arranged in single bite-sized pieces. Food made to be eaten with the fingers—
—or fed to another.
Oddly modest, she caught up the robe and carried it into the next room to change into it, although she had not seemed so shy at the pool. He would have enjoyed seeing the soft silk slip over her young, supple body. Well, that would come in time as she lost her shyness with him.
If they had the time…
He pushed the thought from his mind. He would enjoy what they had, and not seek to shape their future. He slipped into his own robe as she returned, the amber silk caressing her and enveloping her like a cloud of golden smoke. She made a circuit of the room, lighting scented candles to perfume the air; he watched her with pleasure, and wondered a little at her grace. Had she always moved like that? Or had he only now begun to notice?
He waited until she had made herself comfortable before moving toward her. She patted a place beside her and he settled next to her. His most urgent appetite was not for food, but he contented himself with nibbling on a slice of quince as she hesitantly took a piece of cheese.
“What do you think he’ll be like?” she asked abruptly, proving that whatever his thoughts were, hers were elsewhere.
The question took him by surprise, and he had to drag his thoughts away from contemplating her, and apply them to something a bit more abstract.
“The Healing Adept, you mean?” he hazarded. That was the only “he” the question seemed apt for. “The one from k’Treva?”
She nodded, and he made a half shrug. He hadn’t thought about it; he was far more interested in the Adept’s skills than in anything else.
“It usually takes a Healing Adept years to come into his full power, so I suppose that he is probably about the age of my father,” he said, after a moment. “Probably very serious, very deliberate. Although—” he frowned, trying to recall the message’s exact words, “—they did say that he was a kind of experimenter. That is an interesting point. He might be more like Kra’heera than my father.”
“What, that funny kind of trickster?” She nibbled at a piece of fruit. “But powerful.”
“Oh, that, at the least,” he agreed. “He would have to be, to be willing to ride alone across uncertain land. I think that he will definitely have that kind of air about him that Iceshadow has when he is truly certain of himself. Except that he will have it all the time.”
“You have that air sometimes,” she said suddenly.
“No—” Now that startled him. “I do?”
“Yes.” She licked juice from her fingers and gave him a sidelong glance. “You did last night. Sometimes I think you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
He shook his head. “I think you are being flattering, but—”
“I’m not really hungry,” she interrupted him. “Are you?”
He laughed, now knowing where the pathway was leading. “Not for this sort of food,” he said.
* * *
Bondbirds carried the message in midmorning that the k’Treva Adept was less than a league away. Those of the Clan that were not otherwise engaged in Clan duties gathered at the entrance of the Vale to await his arrival. Although the snow was knee-deep beyond the Veil, it would not have been a proper welcome to greet him within.
Elspeth and Darkwind were among them, and she thought privately that this mysterious mage could not have contrived a more perfect backdrop for his first appearance. The clouds of the past few days had cleared away by dawn, and the sun shone down out of a flawless blue sky, filling the snow-bedecked woods outside the entrance of the Vale with pure white light. There wasn’t even a breath of wind, and the woods were completely silent except for a few calls of birds off in the distance. As they waited in the snow, straining their ears for the sound of hoofbeats, Elspeth fretted a little beneath the suspense of the moment. Even Gwena seemed tense with anticipation.
Finally, the sound they had been waiting for echoed beneath the trees; the muffled thud of hooves pounding through snow. From the cadence, Elspeth knew that he had urged his mount into a gallop. Not that dyheli had any objection to galloping, but he could not possibly have kept up that pace all the way here. Only a Companion had the stamina to gallop for hours at a time.
Either he’s impatient for the end of the trip, or he wants to make an impressive entrance, she thought with amusement.
And then the object of their anticipation came pounding in, sprays of snow flying all about him, and a magnificent, snow-white firebird skimmed just beneath the branches precisely over his head, its tail streaming behind it as the Adept’s long hair streamed behind him.
The firebird was the biggest one she had ever seen—and never had she ever heard of anyone using one for a bondbird. It threw off the little false-sparks of golden light as it flew, glittering, a creature of myth or tales. From the murmurs of surprise, she surmised that no one among the Hawkbrothers had ever seen a firebird bondbird before, either.
It was at least as large as Darkwind’s forestgyre. It seemed to be larger, because of the length of its magnificent tail. The head, with its huge, ice-blue eyes, was just as large as any bondbird’s head, which meant it could be as intelligent as the rest.
But the firebirds were seed and fruit eaters. Not carnivores or hunters…
Well, why not? He’s a mage. He doesn’t need a combative bird to help him, the way the scouts do.
The Adept pulled up before the entrance to the Vale in a shower of snow and a flurry of hooves, like some kind of young god of winter, or an ice-storm personified. Even his mount gave Elspeth pause for a moment, until she saw the curving horns over the two ice-blue eyes, for he rode a dyheli bleached to snowy white just as the bondbirds were.
He posed for a moment, and she realized that he was doing it deliberately. Not that she blamed him. She smiled, but kept it to herself.
Oh, what a vain creature he is! And how he basks in the admiration he’s getting. Rightfully.
They had expected a venerable wise man; another Iceshadow with more presence, perhaps. What they had gotten was something else entirely.
He swept his arm out and the firebird drifted down to rest on his snow-white leather gauntlet, alighting as silently as one of its own feathers would fall. Only then was it clear that the firebird was fully as large as any of the greater hawks, and approached the size of the hawk-eagle. Its tail trailed down gracefully to within a hand’s breadth of the snow, and it, too, posed, as if perfectly well aware of its unearthly beauty.
He was dressed all in white; white furs and leathers, long white hair with white feathers in a braid to one side, white coat draped over the rump of his white dyheli. Three sets of ice-blue eyes looked over the assembled Clansfolk dispassionately; the eyes of the dyheli and the firebird held only curiosity, but the eyes of the Adept held more than a touch of a self-confidence that was surely forgivable—both for his Adept status (and indeed, he could never have achieved that complete bleaching of hair and eyes and bird if he had not been controlling node-magic since he could toddle) and for his absolute physical perfection.
Never in all her life had Elspeth seen anyone so beautiful. That was the only word for him. He was beautiful in a way that transcended sexuality and yet was bound up with it.
So some arrogance and self-assurance could certainly be forgiven, even if he was no older than Darkwind.
Gwena was staring at him intently, much more intently than Elspeth expected.
:What’s wrong?: she asked the Companion quietly. :Is there anything wrong?:
:Nothing wrong, exactly,: she said slowly. :No, that’s not true. There’s nothing wrong at all. But it almost seems like I’ve seen him before, though I can’t imagine how I ever could have. But there certainly is something familiar about him—:
:Of course there is, my dear,: a deep, masculine mind-voice interrupted. And the k’Treva Adept winked at the Companion, slowly, and unmistakably.
Elspeth was left floundering in surprise—and as for Gwena, clearly, if the Companion’s jaw could have dropped in shock, it would have. Gwena stepped backwards.
“Greetings, Clansibs,” the Adept called to them all, as calmly as if he had not just utterly flabbergasted Gwena. “I am Firesong k’Treva, and I trust I have not made you wait for too long for my arrival.”
With that, he dismounted, sliding from the back of the dyheli so smoothly that the firebird was not in the least disturbed. There was a pack on his back—also of white leather—which had been hidden until he dismounted. The dyheli paced beside him as he walked forward to the Veil and the Tayledras waiting to greet him, one hand still on the dyheli’s shoulder, a half-smile on his handsome face. Iceshadow and the other Elders greeted him first, as was only proper, but when he had done clasping arms with them, he turned immediately to Elspeth and Darkwind.
“And here are those whose message summoned me,” he said, tossing his head to send his braid over his shoulder, his lips curved in an enigmatic smile. “I see one Clansib—and two Outlanders. A fascinating combination.”
“This is Wingsister Elspeth k’Sheyna k’Valdemar, and her Companion Gwena k’Valdemar,” Darkwind said carefully. A little too carefully, Elspeth thought. “I am Darkwind.”
“K’Valdemar, hmm?” Firesong repeated, his smile increasing by just a hair. “And a Companion. Zhai’helleva, Wingsibs. The tale of your coming here must be a fascinating one indeed.”
“Elspeth is a Herald of Valdemar, if you have heard of such things.” Darkwind’s voice was carefully neutral. “There is another Herald out on the borders of k’Sheyna who was also made Wingsib, one Skif k’Sheyna k’Valdemar—but it is pressing business that keeps him there, and at any rate, he is no mage.”
“Which you, bright falcon, most certainly are.” Firesong’s handclasp was warm and firm as he took Elspeth’s hand in greeting. “And as it happens I have heard of Heralds before. It is something of a k’Treva legend, the visits of Heralds. But then, k’Treva has always been considered—hmm—unconventional.” He glanced aside at Iceshadow, who coughed politely.
“But here I am keeping you out in the snow and cold, when we could be in the welcoming warmth of the Vale!” he exclaimed, turning swiftly in a graceful swirl of snowy hair, feathers, and clothing. “Come, Clansibs! Let us continue these greetings in comfort.”
* * *
Darkwind struggled against annoyance. This Firesong—this young Firesong—displayed a body-language that flaunted his arrogance. And a confidence that implied a competence fully as great as the arrogance.
Well, the firebird resting on his shoulder said something of his competence. It had been generations since one of the Tayledras had thought to breed up a new species of bondbird—and to do so from firebird stock was doubly amazing. Firebirds were shy, highly territorial, easily startled—none of those being traits that augured well for their potential as bondbirds. Yet here he was, this Firesong, bearing a snow-white firebird that sat upon his shoulder as calmly as ever a forestgyre sat on a scout’s.
Small wonder that his Clan described him as an experimenter.
He could be older than he looked; it often took an Adept up to sixty years to show any signs of aging. But Darkwind doubted that. The arrogance that Firesong flaunted was that of youth, not age; Darkwind reckoned that he might even be a year or two younger than he was.
Just as annoying was Elspeth’s obvious fascination with the newcomer.
He is as beautiful as a god, a traitorous whisper said in the back of his mind. How could she not be attracted to him? How could anyone?
He took small comfort in the fact that Firesong chose an ekele near the opposite end of the Vale from Elspeth’s. Right beside Starblade’s in fact, a little higher in the same tree. But no sooner had the Adept tossed his white pack carelessly up into the open door, sent his white firebird to a perch, and shed his heavy outer garments, than he turned and looked down at Darkwind with that annoying half-smile on his face.
“I should like to see your father Starblade, if I may,” he said without preamble. “If you will excuse me.”
And with that, he ran lightly down the stairs and tapped upon the doorpost of Starblade’s ekele as if he were expected.
Perhaps he was, for Kethra beckoned him inside, leaving Darkwind outside. She did not beckon him in, although she clearly saw him standing there.
He felt like a fool, and only felt like less of one because there was no one there to witness his exclusion from what was obviously a private conference.
He gritted his teeth, and went off to find something marginally useful to do, before he did something decidedly the opposite.
* * *
“Ho, Darkwind!”
The unfamiliar voice hailing him could only be Firesong’s. Darkwind stopped, put a pleasant expression on his face with an effort of will, and turned to face the young Adept.
Firesong had changed his costume, from the winter whites he had ridden in wearing, to something more appropriate to the warmth of the Vale. A half-robe and trousers of fine silk—and if Darkwind had not seen it, he would not have believed that it was possible to create a costume that was more flamboyant than that of his arrival.
Firebird gold, white, and flame-blue were the colors, and they matched the blue of his eyes, the silver of his hair, and the gold of his skin to perfection. Someone—hertasi, probably—had taken great pains with his hair. Darkwind felt positively plain beside him.
“Darkwind,” Firesong said, cheerfully, as he strode up beside him. “I have had speech of Starblade and Kethra, of the Elders, and also of the Shin’a’in shaman Tre’valen. What they have told me has confirmed the impression your message gave to me. We can do nothing about the Heartstone for a brace of days; I must study it at close hand.”
Well, at least he has that much sense.
“I trust I don’t need to warn you to be careful about it,” Darkwind said.
Firesong nodded, for once, seeming entirely serious. “There is no doubt in my mind that the Stone is treacherous,” he stated. “It has behaved in a way that no such Stone in the history of either of our Clans has ever done before. I shall take no chances with it.”
That much gave Darkwind a feeling of relief. However arrogant this young man was, he was at least no fool.
“There is something else, however,” Firesong continued. “Something I think you have probably anticipated. There are only two among the humans of the Vale who are of a power and an ability to aid me in dealing with this Stone. Yourself, and the Outland Wingsister. But you are not yet tested and confirmed as Adepts.”
Darkwind grimaced, and began walking back toward his ekele, the direction in which he had been going when Firesong hailed him. “That is true. Although we have Adepts among us, there were none who felt strong enough to do so.”
“I have seen that, and I think it was wise of them to work within their strength,” Firesong replied, keeping pace with him easily. “But that must end now. I shall complete your training, and Elspeth’s, and confirm you, for I shall need you at full ability to aid me.” He stared ahead, down the trail, as Darkwind glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “I shall be accomplishing something with your father as well, but it is nothing you need to concern yourself over.”
No, of course not. He’s only my father. Why should I worry about what you are going to do with him?
But Darkwind kept his thoughts and his comments to himself, simply nodding shortly. “When do you want to see us, then? And do you want to work with us singly, or together?”
“Oh, together,” Firesong replied, carelessly, as if it did not matter to him. “Since I shall need you to work as partners, that is best, I think. And, tomorrow. But not too early.” He yawned, and smiled slyly. “I am weary. And the hertasi have pledged me a massage. It was a cold and fatiguing journey; I believe I shall go and rest from it.”
And with that, he turned abruptly off on a sidepath, one that would take him back to his own ekele.
And Starblade’s.
Of course he already has hertasi, Darkwind thought with irritation. They flock to beauty and power, and he has both in astonishing measure. He probably had a half dozen begging to serve him within moments of his arrival. If he walked by the swamp village, they would follow him in hordes, for all that they consider that they are independent. Nera would probably lead them.
He turned his steps toward Elspeth’s dwelling to give her the news of their new tutor.
And how was she reacting to this arrogant youngster, he wondered. This powerful, breathtaking youngster…
And he was surprised by the stab of jealousy he felt at the memory of the open admiration he had caught in her eyes.
Nyara woke to the thunder of great wings above her tower, and the sound of something heavy landing on her roof. She slipped out of bed, hastily snatching up the cloak she had made from the skin of a winter-killed bear.
Before she had a chance to panic, or even to shake herself out of the confusion of interrupted sleep, Need spoke in her mind. :It’s the gryphons. Tell them hello for me,: Need said casually, as she stood, blinking, and trying to shake her dreams off.
The gryphons? She wrapped the cloak around her narrow shoulders and slipped up the steep stone stairs to the rooftop.
The gryphons? But—why have they come here?
“Brrright grrreeetingsss, little one!” Treyvan called, as she poked her head cautiously over the edge of the stair opening. “How goesss the lessssoning?” He looked as cheerful—and as friendly—as she had ever seen him, his wings shining in the sunlight, his head and crest up. As if she had never betrayed his little ones, his trust. As if she had never fled his lair with a stolen sword. As if nothing had ever happened between them but friendship.
She tried not to show her surprise, and ventured the rest of the way onto the rooftop. “Well, I think,” she said shyly, bobbing a greeting to Hydona, who had landed behind her mate. “Or at least Need says that I do well. She says to tell you hello. How did you find me?”
“Ssstand, and let me look at you,” Hydona demanded, turning her head from one side to the other, like a huge bird surveying something that intrigued it. Nyara obeyed, instantly.
“Good,” Hydona pronounced. “The taint isss gone, and you arrre looking lesss—ferrral. We knew wherrre you werrre becaussse Need told usss, of courssse.”
“Of course,” she said faintly.
“Sssomeone had to know,” Treyvan admonished with a flick of his tail. “What if you encounterrred sssomething you could not deal with? What if crrreaturresss of yourrr fatherrr found you? Need judged usss able to defend you, and otherrrwissse likely to leave you in peace.”
“Morrre ssso than the Hawkbrrotherrrsss,” Hydona said. “But that isss why we arrre herrre. Becaussse of Ssskif and Winterrrmoon.”
She inadvertently brought her hand to her throat. “Are they near?” She had not thought she would have to deal with Skif so soon…
“Verry,” Treyvan said shortly. “The trrrail isss hot. You will not brrreak passst Winterrrmoon without him ssstriking yourrr esscape trrrail. The owlsss will find thisss place tonight or tomorrrrow night.”
Hydona nipped at her mate. “And we mussst leave, if we arrre not to brring dissscovery on herrr soonerrrr.” She hesitated a moment. “Nyarrra, we have all forrrgiven you. You did yourrrr bessst. We wisssh you verrry well. And Ssskif would make a fine mate. But I think you know that alrrready.” With that, she launched herself from the tower like a sea-eagle, in a dive that ended with a great snap as she opened her wings and turned the dive into a climb. Treyvan only nodded, then turned and did the same.
Within moments, they were far out of sight. Nyara stared after them—comforted, and yet tormented.
She descended the stairs to her living quarters slowly, still not certain what to do. Should she wait for him to find her? Should she hide somewhere, so that he found only her empty lair? Should she hide here and pretend that she was not here?
:Go find him, girl,: Need replied. :You heard Hydona; now you have a second opinion. A little stronger than mine, really—but then Hydona has a mate of her own. She tends to favor matings.:
“But—” Nyara began.
:But nothing. Don’t let the opinion of someone who never had a man get in your way.: Need actually chuckled. :Look, girl, I never, ever, put my bearers between a boulder and a rock, making them choose between me and a man. Just because I have always chosen to defend women, that doesn’t mean I despise men. Demons take it—that would be as blind as the opposite! I am not about to go copy the behavior of some woman-hating man! Now go on out there and deal with your feelings. Meet them, instead of waiting for them to trap you.:
“I still don’t know,” Nyara said, feeling as helpless as a kitten in a flood.
:You don’t need to know. Get it over with one way or another. If you don’t—girl, don’t you know that’s something your father will use against you? Make it into a strength, and not a weakness! It worked before. Remember?:
Yes, she remembered. Remembered attacking her father with tooth and claw, for striking at Skif. Recalled the surprise on his face before he struck her.
:The beast just does not understand the strength of true feelings, and he never will. It makes you unpredictable to him. Use that.:
Nyara sighed and moved to her window, looking out over the peaceful countryside that up until this morning had been only hers. Only white. And now seeing the shadows. They had been there all along, but she had chosen not to see them. “I suppose I should be grateful that he has been sulking and licking his wounds for so long, and has not come looking for me.”
:You’re waking up, girl. The gryphons were my hedge against Skif or Mornelithe finding you. Well, Skif showed up before the beast did; I suppose we should be grateful for that, too. Skif’s a good one, as young men go.:
“So.” She settled her cloak firmly about her shoulders. “If he is hunting with Wintermoon and the owls, he hunts by night.”
:True enough.:
“He will be sleeping now,” she said, thinking out loud. “I should be able to approach without Cymry rousing him, and be there when he wakes. Yes, I think that now is the time to go and meet him.”
:Good girl.:
She turned to face the sword. “So,” she said, feeling a kind of ironic amusement after all, “since I am sure that you know—or can find out—where is he?”
* * *
Mornelithe Falconsbane reclined on a soft couch in his darkened study, and brooded on revenge, like some half-mad, wounded beast. He had not left the room since his return, sore in body and spirit, depleted, but refusing to show any weakness. Weakness could be fatal to someone in his position. A show of weakness would give underlings… ideas. He had learned that decades ago.
His own people hardly dared approach him; they ordered slaves to bring him food and drink, silently, leaving it beside the door. The slaves obeyed out of immediate fear of the lash, fear of pain even overcoming their fear of Falconsbane, praying that he would not notice them. For sometimes, the slave in question would find those glowing golden eyes upon him, shining out of the darkness of the study-corner where he lay…
And when that happened, more slaves were summoned later, to take the remains away. The remains were not pretty. Usually, there were pieces missing. No one looked into the study to find them.
He had used his own blood to open the great Gate in the ruins; had wrenched that Gate from its set destination to a portal of his choosing. He had done so out of desperation, not knowing if the thing would work, not knowing if he had the strength left to make it work. Not knowing if it would take him where he willed, or somewhere unknown. He chose to risk it anyway, preferring to die fighting rather than be taken by the cursed Horse-Lovers and the Bird-Fools.
In the end, he stumbled from the mouth of a cave at the very edge of his own realm, fell to the ground, and lay in a stupor for over a day. Only the strength he had cultivated, the stamina he had spelled into himself, had saved him. A lesser being would have died there. A lesser Adept would have been stranded in the nothingness between Gates, trapped, unless and until some accident spewed him forth—perhaps dead, perhaps mad, certainly tortured and drained.
But he was not a lesser Adept, and it would take more than a day of exposure to kill him.
He woke, finally, ravenous and in pain from wounds within and without. His mage-channels had been scorched by the unrestricted torrent of energies he had used. The first thing he had needed was food.
He had caught and killed a tree-hare with his bare hands; eaten it skin and bones and all.
He had chosen his exit point well; once he had strength to move, he turned his attention to his next need, shelter. That was not a problem, for wherever he had established a possible Gate-anchor, he had always built a shelter nearby. That was a habit so ingrained he never even thought about it, centuries old, but this time it had saved his life.
He had staggered to the hunting shelter, a small building of two rooms, but well-stocked with food, wood, and healing herbs. He spent over a moon-cycle in recovering from the worst effects of wounds and spells. His own slaves and servants had not known whether he lived or not, until he had limped home. Only their fear of him had kept them at their posts. Only sure knowledge of his retribution when he recovered completely kept them there once he returned.
Fortunately, obedience was a habit with them. He was at a reasonable fraction of his strength once fear and habit weakened, and someone thought they might try for freedom.
Since he had neither the strength nor the time for finesse, he simply killed the offenders.
Fear of what he was now continued to keep them here.
He reinforced that fear, periodically, by killing one of the slaves. Reminding them what he had done; what he could do. Reminding them all that their lives rested in his hands.
It was a diversion, anyway.
There was an ache inside him that no herb and no rest could touch—a hunger for retribution. That was what drove him to killing the slaves. The deaths themselves did nothing to ease the pent-up rage that smoldered in his soul. There were only three things that would slake his thirst for blood.
Nyara.
He flexed his claws into the leather of his couch, and considered what he would do to her once he found her. She would die, of course, but not for a very long time. First he would ease his lust in her, repeatedly. He might share her; it depended on his own strength and how deeply he wished to wound her spirit. Then he would flay her mind with the whip of his power until she was nothing more than a quivering, weeping heap of nothingness—until the person that had dared to defy him was utterly destroyed. Then, only then, would he carefully, delicately, flay the physical skin from her body—leaving her still alive. Then he would see that what was left was placed in a cage and hung over his towers for the carrion crows to pick at. An example for those who considered treachery. His magic would see to it that she lived for a very long time.
Perhaps he would make a rug of that skin, or wear it.
K’Sheyna.
That was the second cause for his anger and hate. Only the destruction of the entire Clan would do. He had held back his power until now, enjoying the challenge, but now he would take them, one by one. First the scouts. Then the mages. Then, last of all, Starblade and his sons, plucking them from the heart of the Vale and bringing them to grovel at his feet before they died. The others he would kill however he could, but those three—those three he would deliver to the same fate as his treacherous daughter. Then, when the Vale was empty of all but the hangers-on, he would suck the power from the Heartstone and blast it back again, turning the Vale into an inferno of melting stone and boiling water.
Then the last—and greatest—cause for rage. The gryphons.
Oh, the gryphons. Creatures that he had thought long gone. Returning to these lands, after all these many centuries. Returning to live here once again. Returning to the home of Skandranon…
The gryphons. My hated ancient adversaries. Something very… special… for them.
He brooded in the hot darkness of his study, and never quite knew the moment when his brooding slipped over the edge into dreaming.
* * *
He watched himself through other eyes and knew that he was An’desha shena Jor’ethan, Shin’a’in of the Clan of the Bear, an offshoot of Wolf-Clan. A young almost-man, in his early teens. He stood on the edge of all that he had known, and shivered.
He was not yet a warrior, this youngling of the Plains. Only—he was Shin’a’in no more. He could no longer hold place in the Clans, for he had the power of magic, and yet he had not joined the shamans. The Goddess had declared that no one but Her shamans could work magics within the bowl of the Plains, for the task of the Shin’a’in was to keep magic from their homeland. He had felt no calling for such a life-task, and no liking for it, either.
For such a one, one with the gift of magery, yet unwilling to go to Her hands, there was only one choice. Exile, to the Kin-Cousins, the Tale’edras, the Hawkbrothers. They had magic; they were permitted—nay, encouraged—by the Goddess to use it. They would freely adopt any of their magic-bearing Kindred into their ranks, so it was said, to teach the use of such a gift.
So he had come, to the edge of Hawkbrother lands. Yet he had come without the knowledge of the rest of his kin, nor the guidance of the shaman, for no one else in his Clan knew of this secret power. He had feared to disclose it, for he was not a strong-willed young man, and he knew only too well what such a disclosure would bring to his lot.
And now, as he stood in the silent forest, he wondered. Should he have confided in Vor’kela, the shaman? Should he have confessed his fatal gift before the rest of the Clan? Should he not have claimed his rights, and been given guidance to the nearest of the Tale’edras?
Yet even as he wondered, he knew that he could not have born the weight of Vor’kela’s insistence that he take up the shaman’s staff and drum. No one in all of the Clan would have been willing to let him go to the Kin-Cousins without great outcry and argument. There would have been those who said that his gift was unclean, and the result of his father’s liaison with the Outlands woman at Kata’shin’ain, even as he was the result of that liaison. There would have been those who would have said he should take vows of celibacy, that this gift not be passed to others of the Clan. There would not have been a single one of his Kin willing to let him pass out of their hands without long argument and contention.
And he—he would have folded beneath the weight of their words. He would have taken up a place at the shaman’s side. And there he would have been utterly miserable. He trembled at the thought of all the years of sacrifice the place as shaman’s apprentice would cost him. He was revolted at the idea of being forced to serve at Vor’kela’s side and bear the brunt of the shaman’s humor.
Better that he had done what he had done; to creep away in the dead of night, and seek out a new life among the Kin-Cousins. He had taken only what was his by right. He had violated no laws.
Because of this, he had no guide. He had never been outside the Plains. As he stood at the top of the path that led from the bottom of the great bowl of the Plains to the top of the rim, he wondered at the forest before him. Huge trees, more trees than he had ever seen in his life, towered before him, and marched endlessly to the horizon. Only there was no horizon, only trees, trees, endlessly trees.
Trees were a rarity on the Plains, and never grew to the height of these. He could not see their tops, only their interweaving branches.
Trees that bent over him, as if watching. Trees that murmured on all sides of him, as if whispering. Trees that had a secret life of their own.
With a bravery born of desperation, he shouldered his pack—for he had left his horse at the base of the path, to find her way back to the Clan—and marched into the cool shadow of the endless trees. Always he had heard how jealously the Hawkbrothers guarded their lands. Surely he would be found and challenged before long.
Before midday, he was lost. By nightfall, he was lost, cold, and terribly afraid. He had heard all too many tales of the strange beasts that lived beneath these trees—the beasts that the Tale’edras fought and penned. Strange mage-created creatures that no arrow could harm. Beasts with the cunning minds of men. He knew none of the sounds of the forest around him; he could not tell if they were the voices of harmless things, or terrible predators, or even demon-spawn.
If only he had a fire—but he had left his fire-making tools behind, for they did not belong to him only, but to all of his family. He was so cold—and all men knew that true beasts feared fire. If he had a fire, it would shine through the darkness of this forest like a beacon, drawing the Tale’edras to him. If only he had a fire…
But wait—had he not heard that a mage could call fire? Even so untutored a one such as himself ? He knew where the currents of power ran; he felt them beneath his very feet. He had felt them, even stronger and wilder, on the Plains. Why could he not use them to bring a spark to waiting tinder?
No sooner thought, than he hurried about in the gathering gloom, scraping a dirt hollow in the moss, gathering twigs, dried pine-needles, bits of dry bark; laying larger branches close to hand. When he had his tinder going, he would soon have his fire built as high as he needed.
He closed his eyes, reached for the power, and thought of the springing flames—
And got what he had not expected.
YES!
He came with a roar, filling the boy’s body, thundering out of his hiding place, into the body of the blood of his blood, his coming triggered by the moment of Fire-Calling. As it had always been. Once again he took and lived. From the time when Ma’ar, Mage of Dark Flames, had fought and conquered Urtho and had learned of a way to preserve himself down through the ages…
Using the power of the death of his body to hide himself in a tiny pocket of the nothingness between the Gates, he preserved his own person, sealed himself there with spell upon carefully wrought spell. And when one with a trace of the blood of great Ma’ar in his veins learned to make Fire, he came, and overwhelmed the boy’s fledgling personality with his own. So he lived again. And when the time came for the death of that body, he moved again into hiding…
Hiding to live again.
So it had gone, down through the centuries, taking new bodies and taking on other names. Krawlven. Renthorn. Geslaken. Leareth. Zendak.
And now, a new rebirth, a new body, a new name. As the young spirit struggled beneath his talons with fear and hopelessness, as the spirit grew quiet, then disappeared altogether, he baptized himself in the blood and flesh of a new incarnation.
Mornelithe. I am Mornelithe! And I live again!
The sound of his laughter rang beneath the branches of the pines, and shocked the forest into sudden stillness.
Then he gathered his powers about himself and vanished into the night, to build his empire anew.
* * *
Mornelithe woke with a sudden start. He had not thought of that moment in… decades. Why now?
And why had he first felt the long-vanished spirit of the Horse-Loving halfbreed whose body he had taken?
Never mind, he told himself impatiently. It matters not at all. Or if it matters, it was to remind myself that I have lived more lives than this, and I am surely wiser for all of that living. And stronger. Wiser by far than the Bird-Fools. It is the gryphons that should concern me. The gryphons, K’Sheyna. Nyara.
He stretched and sat up on his couch. Discontent weighted his shoulders like a too-heavy garment. In the days that he was Ma’ar, he would merely have had to stretch out his hand to have them all—
But the power that was so rich and free in his day as Ma’ar was a poor thing now. Shattered and scattered, dust in the storm. Like his power, his empire was a small thing, He was constrained to harbor allies he would never have suffered in the old days.
For a moment, he felt a kind of shame, that he should be reduced to this meager existence. Yet what had worked in the long-ago days could work now, if only on a smaller scale.
The gryphons. The gryphons. Why is it that they do not fade, but prosper? In his mind’s eye the male gryphon took on the black-dyed elegance of Skandranon, and his lip lifted in a snarl. There was no mistaking the beast’s lineage. And that should not have been. The gryphons of Urtho’s pride should not have survived him.
Nor should those too-faithful servants, the beast-breeding Kaled’a’in. They should have perished, they should all have perished in the cataclysm that destroyed his kingdom and Urtho’s. There should have been nothing left but a pair of smoking holes. Every trace of Urtho’s handiwork and Urtho’s allies should have been erased for all time.
Yet, here they were. The Kaled’a’in, Urtho’s faithful servants, still prancing about in the guise of the Bird-Fools and the Horse-Lovers. Sundered, yet still prospering. Half of them guarding what remained of the old magics, half of them removing the scars and taint of the destruction. Both halves working beneath the eye of that wretched Goddess who took so deep an interest in their doings.
And the gryphons—thriving! Clearly established in the west, and moving eastward!
How? How did this happen?
He flung himself off of his couch, and began to pace the room, like a restless, caged lion. He had been brooding here for too long. He needed to act! He needed to stir his blood, to exact some token of vengeance before his followers lost their fear and began to desert him.
He needed a show of strength that would convince them that he was still as all-powerful as ever. And he needed the sweet taste of revenge to completely heal him.
Nyara. She was the weakest, the most vulnerable—and the most personal target. Yet she was inexplicably out of his reach. He had sought for her ever since he returned to his stronghold, and yet it had been in vain. He searched as far as his strength was able to take him. There was no trace of her.
Or rather—something was hiding her. He would have known if she had perished, for the power he had invested in her would have come rushing back to him. There was someone, or some power, hiding her.
K’Sheyna, perhaps?
A possible, if surprising, thought. He had thought the Bird-Fools of k’Sheyna too bound up by long custom to change. Could the Bird-Lovers have lost their hatred of Changechildren enough to shelter her? Was it possible?
After the way she had fought at cursed Darkwind’s side—after the way that she had defended the gryphons—yes. It was possible. In fact, now that he gave it consideration, it was likely.
The gryphons—
The target he longed to strike.
No, the time was not right to exact his revenge upon them. Besides, they too lay under the shelter of k’Sheyna. He might ambush them, but he had no major mages at his disposal now. The last of them had vanished during a hunt for spell-components. He would have to go in person to deal the blow. That was too risky; there was too much he did not know about them.
That left—k’Sheyna.
The most logical choice, if he was to impress his followers with his still-vital power.
He would have to do something to hurt the Clan, and hurt it badly. But it would have to be something swift and decisive, and something they had not guarded themselves against.
If he struck at the Clan, his followers would see that he was strong again, and fear to desert him. In striking at the Clan, he might persuade the Bird-Fools to give up the shelter of all those not of their blood. If he were clever enough, he could make it look as if the blow had come through them. K’Sheyna would never shelter them, then. That would put not only Nyara within his reach, but the Outlanders and the gryphons.
The gryphons.
Yes, then he would gather in his dearest daughter—and her winged friends…
And the Outlanders as well, the strange ones. The girl, now—she had all the potential for an Adept. When he saw her last, she had but the most rudimentary of tutelage. It was unlikely anyone in k’Sheyna could be persuaded to give her lessons, and the half-taught were the most vulnerable. He would need a plaything when Nyara was dead.
Yes, he would slay the Outland man, but keep the Outland woman. She might do well to carry his seed for the next generation, since Nyara had proved barren, and turned traitor in the bargain. He might even make the transfer without waiting for the death of his body. Yes. That was a good plan. An excellent plan. It would be good to have a young, strong body again, full of vigor and energy.
That left only one question to be answered.
If I am to hurt k’Sheyna, where must I strike?
His lips twisted in a feral smile.
Where else, but at the weakest bird in the flock, the broken-winged, broken-souled Starblade? He will no longer be mewed up away from my power. They surely think me dead. They must be getting very careless at this point.
An attack on Starblade in and of itself would not hurt the Clan as a whole. But if he used Starblade’s link to the Heartstone, and completed the work that he had begun there—
Yes, if I shatter the Heartstone—it might not destroy everything in the Vale, but it will surely destroy most of what is important, and at least half of the mages will die in the backlash of power.
It went against the grain to loose all that power.
But if I cannot control it, then I shall destroy with it.
If he were truly fortunate—although his revenge would be a little less—the gryphons would be destroyed with the rest.
Or better, far better, the gryphons would be hurt when the Stone shattered completely. Leaving them weak, and vulnerable.
Yes, that would be the best of all.
He flung himself back down upon his couch, chewed the last pain-spiced flesh from a former servant’s thighbone, and began to plan.
* * *
Firesong deemed most of the Vale too near the Heartstone to work in, and although Darkwind agreed with him, this tiny clearing at the far end was a damned awkward spot to get to. It had been made as a trysting-spot, but had gotten overgrown. To reach it, they had to wind their way through tangles of vines and bushes, only to discover when they got there that most of the clearing itself had been eaten up by encroaching vegetation. “So, clear it,” Firesong said casually, and sat down on a stone to await the completion of their task. Darkwind seethed with resentment that he held closely, permitting none of it to slip. He had thought that Elspeth tested his temper; he had never thought that one of his own people would bring it so close to the snapping point.
Except, perhaps, his father.
The Adept did not even watch them; he called in his snow-white firebird and fed it flowers and bits of fruit while they worked, clearing the vegetation by hand since using magic would have been fairly stupid for so simple a task. “Good enough,” Firesong said at last, when the earth of the clearing had been laid bare, and all the seats were free of vines and overhanging bushes. “Now, we return to basics. Darkwind, you will tap into the ley-line beneath us.”
Back to basics? For what? Or doesn’t he trust our training?
“Stop,” Firesong said, with calm self-assurance, as Darkwind obeyed him; he grounded himself carefully, centered his personal power, and prepared himself to grasp for the power of the ley-lines. “What are you doing?”
“I am grounding myself,” Darkwind told him, not adding, as any fool could see, for it was obvious that Firesong had some deeper intention in mind. Sunlight trickled through the leaves above them, making patches of brilliance in the Adept’s hair. This morning Firesong wore blue, the same blue as his eyes. He looked good enough to have his will of any female in the Vale, and no few of the males.
“Why?” the Healing Adept asked, flicking his hair over his shoulder with one hand. “Why are you grounding yourself and your shields?”
“Because—because that is the way that I was taught. That—” he groped after long-forgotten lessons “—if I am not grounded when I reach for the ley-line power, it will fling me away by the force of its current.” His resentment continued to seethe at being forced to dredge up those long-ago lessons. What difference did it make? It was something you did.
“All well and good,” Firesong replied, with that same maddening calm, and a smile that said volumes. “But what if you release your ground after you have the power? What, then? And why must you always sink your ground into the earth below you? Why not elsewhere?”
Darkwind only gaped at him, unable to answer questions that ran counter to everything he had ever been taught.
“I will show you.” The young Adept centered and grounded faster than Darkwind could blink; seized upon the ley-line beneath them as if he owned the deed to it. He made the energies his own, feeding them into his shields with an ease that called up raw envy in Darkwind’s heart.
Then he cast loose the ground. “Now, strike me. Full force, Darkwind, trust me.” The shields stayed where they were, contrary to everything Darkwind supposed would happen.
Darkwind struck—with more force than he had consciously intended, all of his pent-up frustration going into the blow. All of his fury and bruised pride combined to make the blow one that would have done harm if it had properly connected. It should have completely shattered Firesong’s shields, the outer one, at least.
But instead of meeting the blow, the shields, no longer anchored by the ground, slid aside. Darkwind watched in complete shock as his angry blast did no more than to bow the shields slightly. The energy of his strike was neither absorbed, nor reflected; it was deflected, routed around the outside, skittering away in bright eddies of flame. Nothing touched the mage inside.
“This is dangerous, cousin,” Firesong warned, smugly cradled within his untouched shields. “A clever mage will see at once that without the ground protecting the essential flow of magic energy from the line to myself, that tie is vulnerable. A clever mage could also force the shields toward me, then instead of striking a blow, could lance through them at the nearest, thinnest, weakest point. But until he does that, I sit untouched, allowing all his force to spend itself uselessly. I need not even fear the contamination of his magic, for it never touches me or my shields.”
To Darkwind’s great chagrin, Elspeth nodded, her face aglow with admiration. “A clever mage could also create a whirlwind of edged mage-bolts around you,” she pointed out. “Those things can shred a shield in next to no time. And although they can’t touch you physically, that would leave you open to attack.”
“Ah, but that whirlwind would have no effect, Wingsib,” he said, turning a dazzling smile upon her that caused a shaft of jealousy to stab his “cousin.” Darkwind chewed his lip and looked away, at the tangle of vines behind one of the empty seats. “A whirlwind that would erode a grounded shield would only cause this one to spin with it. It would find purchase but spin freely. Since I am not connected to the shield, it would have no effect on me.”
“I see.” She prodded the shield with a bit of power, experimentally, and Darkwind saw for himself how the shield simply bent away from it. “Interesting. So if the enemy doesn’t know that this is possible, you can let him wear himself out against you.”
Firesong imploded the shield and collapsed it down around himself. “Aye, and a bit of acting, and he’d continue to do so, as I looked ‘worried.’ Now—this is the trickier task. Grounding in something other than the earth.” His face sobered for a moment. “Take heed, cousin. This is something only a powerful Adept can attempt, and never with impunity. I think that you can do this, but it is very dangerous.”
Once again, Firesong centered, grounded, and shielded, all within the blink of an eye. To Darkwind, he looked perfectly “normal,” insofar as a mage of his power could ever look “normal.” But then he took a closer look.
“Where is your ground?” he asked, perplexed.
“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?” the young mage taunted. “Find it! You already know it is not sunk into the earth at my feet. Look elsewhere! Have I somehow grounded into the air? Perhaps I have only created an illusion of being grounded.”
Elspeth only shook her head, baffled. Darkwind was not prepared to give up so easily. He studied Firesong carefully, ignoring the mage’s mocking smile. Finally he acted on a hunch, and moved his Mage-Sight out of the real world and onto the Planes of Power. There he saw it—and a cold sweat broke out all over him at the Adept’s audacity.
He stared at Firesong and could not believe that the mage simply stood there, calm and unmoved. As if he did this sort of thing every day.
Maybe he did. If so, he was the bravest man that Darkwind had ever seen. Or the most foolhardy. Or even both, at the same time.
“You grounded it—in the place between Gates!” he managed to get out, after a moment. “I can’t believe you did that! You could call a deadly storm that way—or find yourself drained to the dregs!”
Firesong shrugged, and dismissed the shield, ground and all. “I told you, no mage does that with impunity. I would not attempt it while someone else held a Gate near me, or during a thunderstorm. But that place makes an energy-sink that is second to none. If you wish to drain an enemy, ground yourself in the place, tie your shields to the ground as always, and let him pour all of his power out upon you. It will drain into the place and be swallowed up, exhausting him and costing you no more than an ordinary shield.”
He held out a long, graceful hand to Darkwind. “Touch it,” he ordered. Darkwind did so. The hand was as cold as ice. “Therein lies the danger there. The place is an energy-sink. It will steal your energies as well, and there is no way to keep it from doing so. You had best hope that you can outlast your enemy, if you ground there; work him into an irrational fury before trying it.”
He turned to Elspeth, who was again visibly impressed. “Take nothing for granted, Wingsib. No matter what you have been told, most anything in magery can be done, despite the ‘laws’ that you have been taught. The question is only whether the result is worth it.”
It galled him to see the admiration on her face. Oh, Firesong had undoubtedly earned the right to arrogance; his Clansfolk had not exaggerated when they said that they considered him a powerful experimenter. He was, without a doubt, a genius as well.
But none of that meant that Darkwind had to like it.
At the end of the day, when he was exhausted, and Firesong was still as outwardly cool and poised as he had been that morning, Darkwind was ready to call a halt to the entire thing.
But Firesong didn’t give him that opportunity.
“You’ll do,” he said, with cool approval. “At least, you aren’t hopeless. I’ll have a different course of action for you two tomorrow.”
And with that, he simply turned on his heel and left, he and his bird together, melting into the greenery.