That was Falconsbane!” Elspeth gasped, climbing to her feet and swaying in her tracks with shock at Darkwind’s side. “That was Falconsbane - I know it was! What stopped him?”
“I don’t know,” Darkwind replied. “I can’t tell, Elspeth.” His head rang with the echoes of power, and there was no reading anything subtle this close to the Stone. He stepped across the pass-through on the warded threshold that sealed the Stone away from the rest of the Vale, and sent out a fan of questing energy.
The trace was clear and clean, though quickly fading, and it ran back to a center that was not disturbed, but oddly empty.
No - more than empty -
When he realized what he felt, he recoiled and snapped up his own shields. Elspeth crossed the threshold, and Gwena appeared at her side. Both breathed hard from sprinting.
Vree, who had been sunning in the falls area of the Vale, shot overhead, alert for new danger. He abruptly sideslipped and landed in a tree outside the threshold, and sent a mental query, followed by a wordless message of support when he sensed how distraught his bondmate was.
Darkwind waved to warn Vree away, then began running toward a particular remote corner of the Vale - a place where he had sensed, not only the remains of burned-out power, but something more. The kind of emptiness only a Final Strike left behind.
Death.
Someone had died protecting Starblade, and given that it was a power-signature he didn’t recognize, he was horribly certain he knew who that someone was.
Hoofbeats gained behind him and Gwena and Elspeth drew up just ahead of him. Elspeth’s hand was open to him, and he grasped it and vaulted up onto Gwena’s back. Together, they rode crouched, into the far reaches of the Vale. Gwena sprinted and stooped, dodging trees, limbs, and other i obstacles. The lush, relaxing decorations of the Vale were i now clinging distractions; Gwena could only make speed in clearings.
They were overtaken within moments. Gwena dove off the trail in time to avoid being trampled by Firesong’s white dyheli, who streaked past them, lightning-fast and surefooted. The stag bore Firesong clinging bareback, and behind them flew the firebird, streaming controlled false-sparks of agitation along the flowing length of its tail.
By the time Darkwind, Gwena, and Elspeth reached their goal, Firesong was lifting the body of Tre’valen in his arras as if it weighed nothing, his face utterly blank and expressionless. Firesong’s complexion had turned ashen; the firebird clutched at his shoulder and cluttered angrily, then fixed its eyes on Tre’valen’s lifeless face and went silent.
Firesong looked from Darkwind to Elspeth and back again, but said nothing. There was a chill in his eyes that made Darkwind reluctant to say anything. Elspeth stifled a sob behind her clenched fist; Gwena moved away, stepping backward very deliberately.
Firesong stalked carefully between them, eyes focused straight ahead. He carried his dreadful burden out of the clearing and into the depths of the Vale, without saying a single word to either of them.
Darkwind’s thoughts seethed with anger. He killed Tre‘valen. He shielded the Stone and not my father, and Tre‘valen died for it. And he knows it, the arrogant bastard. Why? Why did he shield the damned Stone? He saw the strike coming before I did - he knew what was going to happen!
“Darkwind - your father,” Elspeth said urgently, recalling to him the other casualties in this catastrophe.
“Gods - ” he said, despairingly, and headed off at a run again, in the opposite direction that Firesong had taken. The ekele was not that far, but it seemed hundreds of leagues away as he hurtled through the foliage, taking a narrow shortcut. Branches whipped at his face, leaving places that stung until his eyes watered. His lungs ached, his legs felt as unsteady as willow twigs. But there was no time, no time -
Despite the fact that it seemed an eternity since the attack, he and Elspeth reached Starblade’s home moments ahead of the rest of the mages of k’Sheyna. Hyllarr was shrieking alarm and outrage to the entire Vale. Darkwind pounded up the steps of the ekele and burst into the main room, and stepped back, shocked by the destruction.
Starblade was sprawled inelegantly across the floor, with Kethra lying atop him in an attitude of protection. He was awake, if dazed; she was not moving. Elspeth pushed past him and reached for Kethra, levering her off the k’Sheyna Adept so that Darkwind could get to his father. She slipped and steadied, after a floorboard shifted under her. All the wood in the room was splintered; moisture covered every part that was not patched in frost. Very little was intact within four arm’s spans of Starblade and Kethra; the floor and walls were warped and cracked. This ekele could not possibly be livable again.
Hyllarr quieted as soon as they entered the room, though he continued to shift from one foot to the other, crooning anxiously and craning his neck to watch what they were doing. He came as far as the outer edge of the ice, then waited.
Starblade blinked up at his son, and tried to rise; Darkwind decided that it would be better to help him onto the couch than try to prevent him from moving. Starblade’s fingers showed signs of frostbite.
“Falconsbane,” Starblade murmured, bringing a trembling hand up to his eyes. “That touch again - filthy - ”
He shuddered, and Darkwind got him lying back against a heap of pillows, then ran to fetch water and cups from the far side of the ekele. One cup he handed to Elspeth, who had managed to get Kethra into a sitting position. The other he handed to his father, who seized it in shaking hands and drained it as if it contained the water of life itself. Darkwind daubed his fingers into the pitcher and traced wet fingers across his father’s brow and eyes and blew gently, an old mage’s technique to help focus concentration.
“What happened?” he asked, as Starblade closed his eyes and lay back again, the lines of pain in his face even more pronounced than ever before.
“I am not certain,” Starblade faltered. “It was Falconsbane - he tried my defenses.” His face mirrored his confusion and his fear, the fear that he had once again betrayed his Clan.
“It seems he could not break them,” Darkwind reminded him. “The beast could not take you, Father. His hold over you is gone forever - do you see?”
Starblade shook his head, though not in negation. “I - he attacked. Kethra tried to protect us both.” He propped himself up onto one elbow, with obvious effort, and looked around.
“She’s in shock,” Elspeth said calmly. “She needs a lot of rest, and she needs her energies restored. But I’m sure she’s going to be all right.”
By now, they had an audience, but only Iceshadow pushed through to join them. He went first to Kethra, then to Starblade, and seeing that they were only badly shaken and depleted, shook his head.
“It is strange,” Iceshadow said in puzzlement. “There was no time for any of us to have protected them. Yet someone did.”
“There were hawks,” Starblade whispered. “Two shining hawks with wings of fire. They dove from the sun, and sheltered us beneath their wings. That is what protected us.”
“That was Tre’valen,” said a new voice, flatly. Firesong stood just inside, keeping his face in shadow.
“That was Tre’valen, in spirit-form. And likely that one of k’Sheyna who was taken by the Shin’a’in Goddess.” He seemed to be waiting for the name, and Darkwind supplied it, carefully controlling his own anger at the Adept’s failure to shield his father.
“Dawnfire,” he said, his own voice as expressionless as Firesong’s.
Firesong did not even acknowledge that he had spoken “Dawnfire. It was also Dawnfire. That was shamanic magic; it would have been the only thing this Falconsbane could not counter, for it is spirit-born, and he knows not how to use it, nor how to negate it.” Firesong bent down for a moment, and laid his hand gently on Starblade’s head, above his closed eyes. Starblade did not seem to even notice that he was there, so deep was his exhaustion. “He must have known he could not survive such a blow in spirit-form.”
Darkwind kept a tight curb on his tongue, afraid to say anything, lest he lash out with words of challenge. But Firesong straightened, and looked into his eyes.
And the sheer agony Darkwind saw there killed whatever accusations had been forming in his mind. Firesong’s ageless, smooth face, which bore only confidence scant hours ago, now showed creases of tension and grief.
“I could not shield your father and the Stone, both, Darkwind,” Firesong said quietly, with unshed tears making his voice thick. “Tre’valen died because I was a fool. I did not think to look for your enemy; I did not ward the Stone against him. I had to make a choice; your father, or the Vale.”
“Look,” he said, and picked up a stoneware cup spider-webbed with cracks from the cold. “Look here, how this is like the Stone. All the damage runs from this place, tied to Starblade. And a single blow here - channeled through Starblade - you see?” He dropped the cup, which shattered between his feet.
Indeed, Darkwind did see. That one blow, had Firesong not intervened, would have shattered the Heartstone completely; releasing all the pent-up energies at once.
It would not have created as large a crater as made the Dhorisha Plains, but it would have dug down to bedrock, and killed every living thing within the Vale, and far outside it.
“I am - sorry,” Firesong said, and sighed heavily. “You will never know how sorry. I did what I had to. As did Tre’valen.”
And with that, he retreated, with the rest of k’Sheyna parting before him.
It was a fair amount of time later when Darkwind left the ekele, having put Starblade and Kethra under the care of Iceshadow and the other mages. Iceshadow was confident that they would both be near recovery by morning; Elspeth had volunteered to stay with them, channeling energies through Gwena to renew what they had lost, helping the k’Sheyna Healers. Vree had wanted to stay with Elspeth.
Darkwind could think of no way to be of use. His own strength was not what it should have been; he had cast much of it into that fruitless counterattack on Falconsbane. And his mind was in a turmoil. He did not know what to do, or to think. He would have been of no use to the Healers, muddled as he was.
So he wandered the Vale instead, coming at last to the curtain of energies that hid the entrance. Snow was falling again. The last daylight dwindled beneath the trees. He I reached the cleft in the hillside, and realized that the odd outcropping of snow there was not snow at all.
Firesong turned slowly, saw him, and nodded. It felt like an invitation. Darkwind stepped across the Veil and into the snow to stand beside him.
After a moment, Firesong spoke.
“He goes home now - ” the Adept said dully, “ - his body does.”
Darkwind saw that one of the shadows at the limit of vision was moving; was not a shadow at all, but a black-clad rider on a ghost-gray horse, with a large bundle carried across the saddlebow. Moving away; toward that path that led down to the Plains.
“And what of the spirit?” Darkwind asked, finally.
“I am not a shaman. I cannot say.”
Darkwind rubbed his arms as the residual heat of the Vale wisped away from his body into the silent snowfall.
“I want you to know, you did the right thing. In protecting the Heartstone. It would have killed us all.”
Firesong stiffened, and looked up; white crystal flakes settled on his forehead and brows, laced his eyelashes and crown of white hair. “Knowing it was the better of two ills changes little.” His hair rippled like silk in a breeze. “It makes Tre’valen’s death hurt no less.”
Darkwind nodded.
Firesong shifted his loose robes and lifted a long bone pipe to his lips. Thin, breathy notes fell softly upon the ear, mingled with the silence. Darkwind knew the tune, a Shin’a’in lament.
A second voice joined the flute’s, though Darkwind could not have told what it was until he saw the white firebird perched in the tree branches above the Adept, its head and neck stretched out, its graceful bill open and its throat vibrating.
The scene etched itself into Darkwind’s memory. After so many years in the company of Adepts, he knew the outward signs of self-induced trance; after a while, he realized that the Adept was paying no attention to anything but his music.
Darkwind turned and walked back into the Vale, leaving Firesong and his bondbird pouring out mournful notes into the dark and silence.
As he walked away, he thought he caught sight of something wet glittering on Firesong’s cheek, though the notes never faltered, and the face remained utterly remote and as lifeless as a marble statue’s. Perhaps it was only a melting snowflake.
Perhaps it wasn’t.
A scream rang out and was cut short.
Falconsbane slashed, all claws extended, and the hapless slave fell to the stone floor, choking on his own blood. Falconsbane watched him with anger raging unappeased through his veins, as the boy gurgled and clutched desperately at his throat. Blood poured between his fingers and splattered against the cold gray marble as the slave twitched and gasped and finally died, his eyes glazing, his body twitching, then relaxing into the limpness of death.
Not enough. Falconsbane looked for something else to destroy, cast his eyes about the study, and found nothing that he could spare or did not need. He had already shattered the few breakable ornaments; the upholstery of his couch was slashed to ribbons. The table beside the couch was overturned, and he would not touch the books; they held knowledge too precious to waste.
So he turned back to his final victim, and proceeded to reduce the body to its fundamental parts, using only his hands.
When he was done, he was still full of burning rage. He kicked the door of the study open, hoping to find someone lurking in the hall, but they knew his temper by now, and had cleared out of the corridors. Likely they were all cowering behind locked doors and praying to whatever debased gods they worshiped - besides him - that he would appease his anger with the slave they had sent him. Cowards. He was surrounded by worthless, gutless cowards.
He growled deep in his chest. Not as gutless as the slave is now.
He stormed out into the corridors of his fortress, and ran upward, toward the rooftops. The place stifled him with its heat and luxury. He wanted to destroy it all, but instead, he went seeking the darkness of the night and the quiet of the snow to cool his temper.
He found a spot where he would not be tempted to destroy anything more because there was nothing to destroy - the top of one of the four corner towers.
It was open to the wind and weather, and since the quiet and cold did nothing to cool his anger, Falconsbane found another outlet for his rage. He reached out to the storm about him and whipped it from a simple snowstorm to a blinding, howling blizzard, taking fierce comfort in the shrieking wind. Wishing that it was the shrieks of dying Hawkbrothers he heard instead.
Thwarted. Again! It could not have happened. He’d posted sentries to spy upon them. They had done nothing out of the ordinary. They made no efforts at all to use the twisted power of their Stone. Instead, they had sought to drain power from it, and it, of course, had resisted as it had been trained to do. Their mages were exhausted; they had no reserves, no Great Adepts.
The timing could not have been better. And yet he been thwarted.
First, his attempt to retake his pawn Starblade failed, of the channels he had so carefully established into the Bird-Fool’s heart and mind were gone. Not blocked, but gone completely, healed by some strange application of magics with a taste he could not even begin to sort out. Strongly female and laced with an acid protectiveness that made him flinch away.
That was bad enough, having to abandon his best tool, but when he tried to turn his controlling of Starblade into an attack on the k’Sheyna Heartstone as planned, he could not springboard to the Stone. Infuriating!
Not once, but twice; blocked at the Stone itself, by shields he could not penetrate, and blocked again at the channel he had tied to Starblade’s life-force! Where had those fools gotten the Adept that had shielded the Stone? There had been no one, not even the Outland girl, with so much as the potential for power like that! And what had they used to block his death-strike on Starblade? Not only did he not recognize it, but his mind still reeled beneath the blinding counter it had made to his strike. What had intercepted his fire-bolt? It had taken all his power and transformed it into a force he could not even remotely name.
Either of those alone would have been bad enough. Together they awoke a killing rage in him that demanded an outlet. He had stormed out of his working-place and into his study, intending mayhem. He discovered there was more - much more. His outriders had been waiting for him; they had come in to him, all bearing the same story. Black-clad riders on black horses, haunting the edges of his domain. Riders who did nothing; simply appeared, watching for a moment, as if making certain that they had been seen, and vanished again. Riders who left no mark in the snow; whose faces could not be seen behind their veilings of black cloth.
His mages had come to him with more news of the same ilk, hundreds of tiny changes that had occurred while he was dealing that aborted attack to k’Sheyna. Along and inside all of his borders, there were tiny pinprick-upsettings of his magic. Traps had been sprung, but had caught nothing, and there was not even a hint of what had sprung them. Ley-lines that had been diverted to his purposes had returned to their courses, but they went to nothing specific nor any new power-poles. Areas that he had fouled to use for breeding his creatures had been cleansed. Yet there was no pattern to it, no plan. Some lines had been left alone; traps side-by-side showed one sprung, the other still set. Areas near to the Vale had been left fouled, while others, farther away, had been cleansed.
He snarled into the howling wind. He hated random things! He hated fools who worked with no plans in mind, and changes that occurred with no warning! And most of all, he hated, despised, things that happened for no apparent reason!
Every one of those pinpricks had taken away his order, interfered with his careful plans - and left chaos behind. And all to no purpose he could see!
He shouted into the night, and let the wind carry his anger away, let the cold chill his rage until it came within the proper, controllable bounds again. How long he stood there, he was not certain, only that after a time he knew that he could descend into his stronghold again, and be in no danger of destroying anything necessary.
He dismissed the stormwinds; without his will behind them, the winds faded and died away, leaving only the snow still falling from the darkened, cloud-covered night sky.
He opened the door into the warmth and light of the staircase and found one of his outriders waiting there for him.
He snarled and clenched his fists at his side; this was more of that news, he knew it, and he wanted so badly to maim the bearer of it that he shook with the effort to control himself.
The man’s face was white as paper; he trembled with such fear that he was incapable of speech. He held out an intricately carved black box to his master, a box hardly bigger than the palm of his hand.
Falconsbane took it and waited for the man to force the words past his fear to tell his master where this trinket of carved wood had come from. But when the man failed utterly to get anything more than an incoherent hiss past his clenched teeth, Falconsbane ruthlessly seized control of his mind with yet another spell, and tore the story from him. It only took a moment to absorb, mind-to-mind, but what he learned quelled his anger far more effectively than the wind had.
His hand clutched convulsively on the box as the tale unfolded, and he left the man collapsed upon the stairs in a trembling heap, ignoring whatever damage he had done to the outrider’s mind. He took the stairs two at a time back to the safety and security of his newly-cleaned study; there was no sign of where the dead slave had been except a wide wet spot. And only there, with all his protections about him, did he use a tiny spell to open the tiny box from arm’s length.
If this was a rational, ordered universe, it would contain something meant to cripple or kill him.
He held his shields about him, waiting.
Nothing happened.
The box contained, cradled in black, padded suede, a tiny figurine carved of shiny, black onyx.
The figure of a perfectly formed black horse, rearing, and no bigger than his thumbnail.
There was no scent of magic upon it - no trace of who or what had made or sent it. Although he knew what had delivered it, if not who it was from.
One of the black riders.
He retreated to his newly-covered couch and held the delicate little carving to the light, pondering what he had ripped from his servant’s mind.
This particular outrider had seen these black-clad riders three times before this, but always they had vanished into the forest as soon as they knew they had been seen, leaving not even hoofprints behind. But this time had been different. This time he had seen the rider cleave a tree with a sword blow, and leave something atop the stump. The rider sheathed the sword and slipped into the shadows, like another shadow himself. When the outrider had reached the spot, he discovered this box.
And it weighted down one other thing. A slip of paper, that had burned to ash in his hand as soon as he had read it. A slip of paper bearing the name of his Master, Mornelithe Falconsbane, in the careful curved letters of Trade-speech.
As if there had been any doubt whatsoever who this was meant for -
He turned the figurine over and over, staring at it. There was nothing here to identify it or the box, with its stylized geometric carvings, as coming from any particular land or culture. Was it a warning, or a gift? If a gift, what did it mean? If a warning - who were these riders, who had sent them, and what did they want?
Skif and Nyara talked idly about the chase; this rabbit they were dressing out had been far more trouble than it was worth, but Nyara’s capture of it was as worthy of admiration as any hawk’s stoop. Wintermoon was gently cleaning a deep scratch one of the dyheli had suffered, several feet from the two of them.
Nyara had reentered their lives by simply coming into camp and waiting to be discovered. They’d found her between the two dyheli when they awoke, sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest and the sword Need at her feet. She looked different now - more human, and with sharply-defined muscles. She also moved with purpose rather than slinking like a cat; she had visibly undergone many changes, all of which served to fascinate Skif further.
There was no sign of any trouble, but suddenly Cymry’s head shot up, and her eyes went wide and wild, with the whites showing all around them. Her body went from relaxed to tense; she stood with all four legs braced, and there was no doubt in Skif’s mind what she sensed.
Danger. Terrible danger. Something was happening.
Skif stood and put one hand on her shoulder to steady her, as Nyara’s face went completely blank. Nyara leapt to her feet and stared off in the same direction as Cymry, her own eyes mirroring a fear that Skif recognized only too well.
He felt nothing, but then, if it was magic that alerted them, he wouldn’t. But he recognized what direction they were both staring in.
The Vale - where Elspeth was.
He tried to Mindtouch his Companion, but all of her attention was on the danger she had sensed. It was Need’s mind-voice that growled in the back of his head, as he tried to break through Cymry’s preoccupation.
:Leave her alone, boy. She’s talking to Gwena. There’s big trouble back with your bird-loving friends.:
He dared a tentative thought in Need’s direction, waiting for an instant rebuff. He still had no idea what Need thought of him, beyond the few things she had condescended to say to him. :What kind of trouble? Something involving us?:
The sword hesitated a moment. :Hmm. I’d say so. Your kitten‘s sire just tried to flatten the whole Vale. And I think-yes. No doubt. There‘s been a death.:
Before Skif could panic, the sword continued. :Not Elspeth; not Darkwind. More, I can‘t tell you. There ‘s some shamanic magic mixed in with the rest, and damned if I can read it. :
Wintermoon stared at all of them with the impatient air of a man ready to strangle someone if he didn’t get an explanation soon. Skif didn’t blame him, and he broke off communication with the blade to tell the Hawkbrother what little Need had been able to tell him. The name of Morne-lithe Falconsbane got his immediate attention. “Falconsbane! But I thought - ”
“We all thought - or, we didn’t think,” Skif replied, trying to make his thoughts stop spinning in circles. “We just assumed. Not a good idea where magic is concerned.” Of where Falconsbane is concerned. Next time I won’t believe he’s dead until I burn the body myself and sow the ashes with salt.
“If there is trouble, we must return, with all speed. And it must be with Nyara or without her, for we cannot delay to argue,” Wintermoon said firmly. “I had rather it were ‘with’ but I shall not force her.”
The mention of her name seemed to wake Nyara from her trance. “Of course we go, night-hunter,” she replied. Her eyes still looked a little unfocused, but her voice was firm enough. “And I go with you. I know too much about my father to remain outside and watch your people struggle to match him again. I shall not hide while he tries to destroy your Clan, hoping he will miss me as he concentrates on you.”
She shook her head, then, and hesitated, looking fully into Skif’s eyes. “If I had a choice, I would tell you this when we are alone, ashke,” she said softly. “But I think that Wintermoon must hear this so he can bear witness if need be.”
Skif tensed, wondering what she was going to say to him. Things had seemed so promising a few moments ago.
“I care for you, Outlander,” she said with quiet intensity. “More than I had ever realized when I saw your face this morn. I would like - many things - and most of all, to share my life with you. But you and I can do nothing until I come to terms with my father. There is much that I have not told you of him - and myself. It must be dealt with.”
Skif had seen such looks as he saw in her eyes more than once, before he became a Herald - and after, among some of the refugees from Ancar’s depredations. He saw it in the eyes of a woman who spoke of her father, and horrors between them.
He knew. He knew of many things that decent people would only think of as horrible nightmares, and deny that they truly happened. He knew the sordid tales that could be hidden behind those bleak eyes. She didn’t even have to begin; he knew before she started. And he blamed her no more for what had been done to her than he would have blamed a tree sundered by lightning.
She was all the more beautiful for her strength.
Maybe it was just that he was too busy wanting to hold her and tell her that nothing in her past could make him want her any less. Falconsbane was dismissed from any redemption in his mind; to him he rated no more thoughts, not even hate - as his friend Wintermoon had taught him, such emotions can cloud purpose. Maybe that purpose was too important for him to have any room left for anger, now. That might change if he ever actually saw Falconsbane again, but that was the way he felt at this moment.
All things could change. If he were the same person he was only a few years ago, he’d have already been sharpening knives, plotting revenge on Falconsbane; now, simply eliminating the Adept was more important. Revenge seemed foolish somehow, it would not help Nyara at all. How strange, that after a life like his, revenge seemed hollow compared to simple justice.
Nyara deserved far more consideration than her father.
He didn’t even think about the sword’s propensity to eavesdrop, until she spoke to him.
:Well, bless your heart, boy - I’m beginning to think there’s hope for you yet.: Need’s harsh mind-voice rattled in his head as she chuckled. :You are all right! Hellfires, I’d even be willing to nominate you as an honorary Sister!:
He felt his ears redden, as Nyara looked at him curiously. :Uh - thank you,: he said simply, not wanting to offend the blade by adding I think.
:Tell her, boy. Don’t go into detail, keep it short and simple, but tell her. She needs to know.:
“Look, Nyara - ” he said haltingly, wishing he could say half of what he wanted to. “I - I love you; I guess you’ve figured that out, but I thought I’d better say it. There. Nothing’s going to change that. I’m not the picture of virtue - or innocence - I’ve seen more than you might think. I’ve spent time on Ancar’s Border. I’ve seen girls - women - who’ve had pretty bad things happen to them. Who’ve been - I don’t know. I guess you could say they’ve been betrayed by the parents who should have protected them. I know what you mean. You and I can’t do anything about us until we get him out of our lives.”
:A little confused, boy, but I think she got the gist of it. I’ll have a little talk with her and lay things out for her later.: Again, that gravelly chuckle. :I’II let her know you weren’t just making pretty talk; you’ve seen things as rough as she’s lived through. Who ever would have figured me for playing matchmaker. And at my age!:
Nyara only stared at him in dumb surprise, clutching the sword to her chest beneath her cloak of fur. But then one hand crept off the scabbard and moved down; searched for his and found it.
She gave him the ghost of a smile then. “Either you are lying, which Need says not - you are a saint, which she also says not - or you are as great a fool as I.” She shook her head, but her eyes never left his.
“Well, then - let’s be fools together,” he whispered, staring down into her bottomless eyes. “I’m willing to work at it if you are.”
Commotion at the entrance end of the Vale caught Darkwind’s attention and broke into his brooding. Darkness had fallen some time ago, but he had not bothered to call any lights. Part of him still wanted to be angry with Firesong - angry at someone - but the rest of him knew that the Adept was punishing himself already. Anything he said or did would be superfluous, and likely cause much harm.
The disturbance was enough to let him know that a larger party than usual had crossed the Veil, and since the second shift of scouts had already gone out, this was not something expected. Something unexpected today could only mean trouble.
He sent a tentative inquiry to Vree, and the answer he received sent him shooting down the stairs of his ekele like a slung stone.
He met the tiny parade just past the first hot pool, and when he saw who had met Wintermoon’s little troupe, as well as who was riding with it, he thought that he was dreaming.
The Outlander Skif rode his white Companion. Beside him to his right was Wintermoon on one of the two dyheli stags that had gone out with them. But on the left hand of the Herald was the second stag, who also bore a rider, and that was what caused him to stare and question his sanity. Nyara sat astride the dyheli, as if she had always known how to ride. She was clad in a rough bearskin cloak, carrying the blade she had taken across her lap.
Walking beside her, holding a mage-light to show the way and engaged in easy conversation with her, was Firesong.
Wintermoon held up his hand, and they stopped long enough to dismount. The dyheli walked off, into the side of the Vale, where the Clan kept grazing and water for their kind. Firesong stepped back to allow Skif to aid Nyara from her mount, but then he fell in beside them, still deeply in conversation with both of them. Still more than a little stunned, Darkwind took his place beside his brother. Wintermoon thanked his mount and sent the stag on his way with a pat on the withers. Cymry walked ahead, but Darkwind had no doubt that she was following every word of Firesong’s conversation.
“Who in the name of all gods is that?” Wintermoon asked, after hearty greetings between the two brothers.
“Firesong k’Treva. Healing Adept. The Council let us send for help,” Darkwind replied. “He’s - ”
“Impressed by himself,” Wintermoon completed. “But I’d guess that he must be something very special.” He shook his head. “Brother, so much has happened to us since dawn this morning that I do not know where to begin.”
“Then let me,” Darkwind suggested. “After the last time you came in, Elspeth and I were permitted to call for aid. Firesong is what we received. He was more than we expected. And yes - he is of such power and ability that this arrogance of his is little more than pardonable pride, and almost a game to him.”
Wintermoon only snorted. “Perhaps. I would like to see him in a situation where his pretty face means nothing, and he only frightens with his power. Take away the things he was born with, and I will be prepared to admire his accomplishments. But then, I am a crude man. Magic has never much impressed me.”
Darkwind came so close to laughing that he choked, and gave his brother a quick embrace. “Nevertheless, he has been training me and the Outlanders.”
“He has been training you, between attempting to impress the Outlander - ”
“How am I to finish this tale?” Darkwind chided, then sobered. “Listen, there were ill things happened here, today. We were to attempt something small upon the Stone - when - ”
“When Falconsbane raised his ugly head and attempted to foul the Vale,” Wintermoon interrupted. “Do not fear to alarm me. That much we knew. Nyara felt the taint of her father, as did the Companion, and the sword knew where and that there had been a death. She said she did not think it was someone she knew. Whose death, then?”
“Tre’valen, the Shin’a’in shaman,” Darkwind said, sorrow rising in him again. Wintermoon’s eyes went wide with surprise. “He - the beast struck at our father, Wintermoon. Firesong shielded the Stone - no, do not interrupt me this time - had he not, none of us would be here to greet you. You would have returned to a smoking hole, and that I pledge you. I could do nothing, nor Elspeth; we were not quick enough.”
“But - Father obviously lives - was it Tre’valen that shielded him, then?” Wintermoon shook his head, amazed. “Surely though he is - was - a shaman, he could not have protected Father against the beast in his wrath!”
Darkwind nodded at everything his brother said, and was no little amazed at how much Wintermoon guessed correctly. “Firesong thinks that he was not alone - that it was he and - and Dawnfire together who shielded Father.” Now it was Darkwind’s turn to shake his head. “He does not know what happened to them, besides that Tre’valen is dead. I do not know what all this means. But there will be a little time to try to find meanings later. What is your tale?”
“Simple, compared to yours.” Wintermoon took off his coat and slung it over one shoulder. “I had struck signs of Nyara’s presence and narrowed the search. I thought that we were within a day, perhaps two, of finding her. But instead, I woke to find her seated quite calmly in the midst of our camp.”
“Oh, so?” He raised an eyebrow at that.
“The sword advised her to seek us out. Well, to seek Skif out, is closer to the truth. It was he that her eyes were upon, and it was he she wished to speak to, so I woke him. There was much sighing and exchanging of speaking looks.” Wintermoon smiled, a smile tinged with sadness. “I would be laughing if there were not so many things now that would make a laugh so greatly out ofplace. It was quite charming. A meeting out of a silly ballad, Darkwind, I could almost hear a harp a-playing. Skif would not thank me for telling you that. Well, I think I can safely say that the two are fairly smitten, absence from each other has only made the bond stronger, and that if I were a betting man, I would bet on them pairing as eagles. A true lovebond.”
Darkwind considered the two; considered what he and Elspeth had spoken of. “I would not bet against you, but there are many obstacles in their way.” Not the least of which is her father - and what he will do to her if he finds her.
“They know that. Which makes it - well - a better pairing, for my thinking. They know what they face, and face it together.” Wintermoon gazed at the backs of those in front of him and smiled again. “A good thing, to see some love in the midst of so much pain. But I should continue. Once we had gotten past the sighing and the looking and into the speaking, she would, I mink, have spoken of those obstacles. But then came the attack upon the Vale.” Wintermoon rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “We decided to return. She determined to go with us, saying there was much she could tell us to aid against her father. I was not certain then of the wisdom of this, for she could be a breach in our defenses.”
“Not with Need beside her,” Darkwind said firmly. “I have spoken to Elspeth of the blade. Although she is not an Adept as we know them, she is very powerful, and has knowledge we do not.”
Wintermoon nodded. “It did seem to me that Nyara was less feral and more human, but I only saw her once, and I thought I might have misremembered. Perhaps the sword is even able to change her. I knew, danger or no, that she must come here long enough to be given some kind of protection. If you have so powerful an Adept here, perhaps he can weave shieldings for her that will protect her. We cached the packs to make more speed, and returned as quickly as we could.”
“When you arrived, was Firesong still at the entrance to the Vale?” Darkwind could not resist asking.
“That he was; quiet as an ice-statue, though he came to life quickly enough when he saw us.” Wintermoon raised his eyebrows. “And that bird of his. It lit our way in. Is he always such a showman?”
Darkwind shrugged. “I cannot see how he could be anything less. I think it is part of his nature. But tell me, what did he make of the Changechild? I have heard that k’Treva is less forgiving of such creatures than we.”
“If that is a trait of his Clan, he does not share it,” Wintermoon said, a hint of speculation in his voice. “He did not even seem particularly startled, although if he viewed us from afar with the eyes of his bondbird, he would have known what she was long before we rode through the Veil.”
“And now he speaks with her.” Darkwind ran a hand through his hair. “It is not what I would have expected of him.”
:Well, he’s reserving judgment, boy,: said a harsh mind-voice. :He isn‘t terribly happy about having Falconsbane’s daughter in his lap, but he thinks that he has some foolproof ways of telling if she’s an enemy plant.: A snort of laughter. :As if I would leave any of the bastard’s hooks in her!:
Darkwind belatedly recognized the voice of the sword. :I think you fully capable, warlady,: he said carefully. :Let me ask you this; is she ready to face her father?:
:Alone? Hellfires, no. Not in a century. There’s only so much I can do with the raw material. Only so much I can do. I’m no great Adept, just a mage-smith: The sword sounded surprisingly - humble? Darkwind found the changes in Need as interesting as the changes in Nyara. :I’II promise you this, though; give that girl proper backing, and she‘II defy her father. Though she hasn’t quite figured it out yet, she’s not his frightened slave anymore.:
That was good news; the first of the day.
“Unless you have something planned - ” Wintermoon began. Firesong stopped, turned, and interrupted him.
“I think,” the young Adept said, pitching his voice so that they all heard him clearly, “it is time to call a Council.”