From the look on his face, that was exactly what Skif intended.
She intercepted a young page and sent him around with farewell messages for everyone except her mother and Talia; those farewells she would make in person.
Mother would never forgive me if I just sent a note, she thought ruefully, as she stuffed clothing into a pack. Not that I wouldn’t mind just slipping out of here. She’s bound to raise a fuss....
Selenay still was not resigned to the situation; Elspeth was as sure of that as she was of her own name. She had been so involved in her researches that she hadn’t spent much time in her mother’s company, but the few times she had, she’d been treated to long, reproachful looks. Selenay hadn’t said anything, but Elspeth would have been perfectly happy to avoid any chance of another motherly confrontation.
She fully intended to plead the need for a hasty departure, putting the blame on Skif and his impatience if she had to. If I can just get this over quickly-Just as she thought that, someone tapped on her door. She started, her heart pounding for a moment, then winced as she forced herself to relax. She hadn’t realized just how keyed up she was.
A second tap sounded a little impatient. Don’t tell me; Mother’s already found out that I’m leaving!
“Come in,” she called, with a certain resignation. But to her surprise, it wasn’t Selenay who answered the invitation, it was Kero.
A second surprise: the Herald-Captain was carrying a sword; Need to be precise. Not wearing it, but carrying it; the blade was sheathed in a brand new scabbard, with an equally new sword-belt, both of blue-gray leather. And before she had a chance to say anything, Kero thrust the sword—sheath, belt, and all—into her hands.
“Here,” she said gruffly, her voice just a little hoarse, as if she was keeping back emotions of some kind. “You’re going to need this. No pun intended.”
Her hands left the sheath reluctantly, and it seemed to Elspeth as if she was wistful—unwillingly so—at parting with the blade.
For her part, Elspeth was so dumbfounded she felt like the village idiot, unable to think at all coherently. I’m going to what—she’s giving me—that’s Need, it’s magic, she can’t mean me to have it! Why—what—
“But—” was all she could say; anything else came out as a sputter. “But—why?”
“Why?” Kero shrugged with an indifference that was obviously feigned. “Right after you and I met, Need spoke for you. I couldn’t do without her, not right then, and she hasn’t said anything since, but there’s never been any doubt in my mind that you’re the one she was supposed to go to.”
“Go to?” Elspeth repeated, dazedly. Now that the blade was in her hands, she felt—something. An odd feeling. A slight disorientation, as if there was someone trying such a delicate mental probe on her that it was at the very edge of her ability to sense it. It was a little like when she’d been Chosen, only not nearly as strong.
“It’s something like being Chosen, I suppose,” Kero said, echoing her thought. “She picks the one she wants to be passed to. Better that than just getting picked up at random, or so I’d guess, though women are the only ones that can use her. Grandmother got her from an old female mere when she left her mage-school; she gave Need to me, and now I’m giving her to you. You’d have gotten her from me in any case eventually, but since you’re going out past the borders, I think it would be a good idea if you take her with you.”
Suddenly, the blade seemed doubly heavy.
“You mean the sword talks to you?” Elspeth replied vaguely, trying to sort out surprise, the odd touches at the back of her mind, and just a touch of apprehension.
“Not exactly talks, no,” Kero chuckled. “Though let me warn you now, she is going to try and exert a lot of pressure on you to do what she wants—which is to rescue women in trouble. Don’t give in to her more than you have to. She’ll try two things—she’ll either try to take over your body, or she’ll give you a headache like you’ve never had in your life. You can block it and her out; I learned to eventually, and I should think with all the training you’ve had in the Gifts you should be able to manage just fine. After all, when I faced her down, I was only half-trained at best. Whatever you do, don’t give in to her, or you’ll set a bad precedent, as bad as giving a troublesome falcon its own way. She manipulated my grandmother, but I never let her manipulate me if I could help it.”
Elspeth regarded the gift dubiously. “If she’s that much trouble—”
“Oh, she’s worth it,” Kero said, with a rueful chuckle. “Especially for somebody like you or me, somebody who doesn’t know beans about magic. For one thing, she’ll Heal you of practically any injury, even on the battlefield in the middle of a fight. That alone is worth every bit of bother she ever gave me. But for the rest of her abilities, if you’re a swordswinger, she’ll protect you against magic—and I mean, real protection, as good as any Adept I’ve ever seen. I had some encounters with some mages of Ancar’s that I haven’t talked about—there wasn’t anything any of them threw at me that she couldn’t deflect.” Kero chuckled. “Gave them quite a surprise, too.”
“But your grandmother was a mage,” Elspeth said. “Right. If you’re a mage, she protects you, too—but she doesn’t do anything for you magically.”
“She takes over your body and makes you a good fighter?” Elspeth supplied.
“Right! But she doesn’t do anything for a fighter in the way of fighting ability.”
“I think I remember something about your grandmother being a fighter in some of the songs, only I knew you said she was a mage,” Elspeth said, looking down at the blade in her hands with a touch of awe. “I never could figure out how the confusion happened. From everything I’ve read, becoming a mage takes up so much of your time you couldn’t possibly learn to fight well.”
Kero shrugged. “Yes and no. It really depends on how much you want to curtail your social life. If you want to be a celibate, you could learn to be both.”
Huh. Like Vanyel....
“Anyway, Need makes you a swordmaster if you’re a mage, protects you from magic if you’re a fighter. And if you aren’t either—”
“Like in ‘Kerowyn’s Ride’?” Elspeth asked, with a sly smile.
Kero groaned. “Yes, gods help me, like in that damned song. If you aren’t either, she takes over and makes you both. Her way, though, which tends to make you almost as big a target as one of your ‘Here I am, shoot me’ uniforms.”
Elspeth chuckled; Kero was, as usual, not wearing Whites. Then she sobered. “But you said I can fight the compulsion, right?”
Kero nodded. “I did it. It takes a little determination, if you don’t know what you’re doing, but it can be done. I had to threaten to drop the damned thing down the nearest well. And I’ve already told it that you’ll do the same if it gives you too much trouble.”
Seeing Elspeth’s hesitation, she added, “If you don’t want it, don’t draw it—it can’t force you to take it, you know. If you don’t draw it, it won’t have any kind of hold on you.”
Elspeth wasn’t entirely sure of that—not after the tentative touches in the back of her mind, but she was certain that the hold the blade had on her could be fought. If she chose to. If Kero could, so could she.
Carefully, she weighed all the factors in her mind. This was not going to be a decision to make lightly.
She’ll have a hold on me—but she’ll protect me from things I not only don’t understand, but might not detect until it’s too late. And the Healing—that’s damned important. If I’m hurt, I may not be able to get to a Healer, but I won’t have to if I have her.
Not such a bad trade, really. And since Elspeth had already been Chosen, perhaps the hold would be that much less. Gwena would surely help fight it; she could be very possessive when she wanted to be.
Another good reason to take the blade suddenly occurred to her. One that Kero might not have thought of. If I don’t find a mage-I’m a woman, and Mother’s a woman. How well would t
his magic sword work against Ancar, I wonder?
Given that scenario, how could she not, in good conscience, accept the blade?
Without hesitation, she pulled Need from her sheath.
For a moment, nothing at all happened.
Then-Time stopped; a humming, somehow joyful, gleeful, filled the back of her head. It is just like being Chosen, she thought absently, as the blade glowed for a moment, the fire coalescing into script, runes that writhed, then settled into something she could actually read.
Woman’s Need calls me, as Woman’s Need made me, she read, as her eyes watered from the fiery light. Her Need will I answer, as my Maker bade me.
The runes writhed again—then faded, the moment she had the sense of them. The hum in the back of her mind stilled, and Time hiccupped, then resumed its stately progress.
“What the hell was that supposed to mean?” she demanded, as soon as she could speak again.
Kero shrugged. “Damned if I know,” she admitted. “Only the gods know her history now. Grandmother said that’s what happens when she gets into the hands she wants. But that, my dear, is the first time she’s roused since I brought her inside the borders of Valdemar.”
Elspeth slid the blade gingerly into her sheath.
Her. I doubt I’ll ever call her “it” again....
“What happens when I take her outside Valdemar?” she asked with trepidation. There had been such a feeling of power when Need had responded to her—a feeling of controlled strength, held back, the way a mastiff would handle a newborn chick.
And I’m not sure I like feeling like a newborn chick!
“I don’t know,” Kero admitted. “She hasn’t been outside Valdemar for a long time. Whatever happens, you’re going to require her, of that much I’m certain.”
“But what about you?” Elspeth was forced by her own conscience to ask. “Where does that leave you?”
Kero laughed. “The same as before; I haven’t ever depended on her to bail me out of a tough spot. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m going to be seeing anything worth being protected against. ”
“And I am.” Elspeth made that a statement.
“I’d bet on it.” Kero nodded, soberly. “I’ll tell you this much; while she’s given me trouble in the past, she’s always been worth the having. I may not have depended on her, but she’s bailed me out of things I could never have gotten myself out of alone. I feel a lot better knowing you have her. ”
“I—” Elspeth stopped, at a loss for words. “Kero, ‘thanks’ just doesn’t seem adequate....”
“Oh, don’t thank me, thank her,” Kero grinned. “She picked you, after all.”
“I’m thanking you anyway.” Elspeth hugged her, sword and all, then bade her a reluctant farewell. It was hard saying good-bye; a lot harder than she thought it would be. She stood with the sheathed sword in her hands for a long time after Kero was gone.
Finally Elspeth buckled the swordbelt over her tunic, and wriggled a little to settle Need’s weight. Once in place, the sword felt right; most swords took some getting used to, they all weighed differently, their balance on the hip or in the hand was different.
But most swords aren’t magic.
The thought was unsettling; this was the stuff of which ballads and stories were made, and although Elspeth had daydreamed herself into a heroine when she was a child, she’d given up those daydreams once she achieved her Whites.
I thought I had, anyway.
That made for another unsettling thought, though; stories all had endings—and she was beginning to feel as if the ending to this one was already written.
As if she had no choice in where she was going, or how she was going to get there; as if everyone knew what her goal was except her.
“Destiny” was one word she had always hated—and now it looked as if it was the one word that applied to her.
And she didn’t like the feeling one bit.
Chapter Eight
DARKWIND
:Stupid,: said Vree, with profound disapproval.
Darkwind’s stomach lurched as Vree made another swooping dive—not quite a stoop—skimming through the pocket valley that held the trapped dyheli bucks.
There were times when the gyre’s viewpoint was a little—unsettling.
The gyre wheeled above the dyheli herd, just above the highest level of the mist, giving Darkwind the loan of his keener eyes and the advantage of wings and height. :Stupid, stupid. We should go.:
Not that Darkwind needed a bird, even a bondbird, to tell him that. The gentle dyheli huddled together in an exhausted, witless knot, too spent by panic to do anything sensible.
Through the gyre’s eyes he looked for anything that might pass as a track out of the valley—and found nothing. The spring dropped from a height five times that of the dyheli to the valley floor, down a sheer rock face. The other two sides of the valley were just as sheer, and sandstone to boot.
Nothing short of a miracle was going to get them out of there.
Vree’s right. We should go. I can’t risk all of k‘Sheyna for the sake of a dozen dyheli. I made pledges, I have greater responsibilities.
So why was he here, lying under the cover of a bush, just above the mist-choked passage out of the dead-end valley, searching through his bondbird’s eyes for a way out for the tiny herd? Why was he wasting his time, leaving his section of the border unpatrolled, tearing up his insides with his own helplessness?
Because I’m stupid.
One of the bucks raised a sweat-streaked head to utter a heartbreaking cry of despair. His gut twisted a little more.
And because I can’t stand to see them suffering like that. They’re fellow creatures, as intelligent as we are. They looked to Dawnfire for protection and help, even if they did range outside our boundaries. They acted as her eyes and ears out here. I can’t just abandon them now.
Which was, no doubt, exactly the way Dawnfire felt. There was no difference in what he was doing now, and what she wanted to do.
Except that I’m a little older, a little more experienced. But just as headstrong and stupid.
The mist—whatever it was—rose and fell with an uneasy, wavelike motion, and wherever it lapped up on the rock wall, it left brown and withered vegetation when it receded. And it took quite a bit to kill those tough little rock-plants. So the mist was deadly to the touch as well as deadly to breathe. There was no point in trying to calm the dyheli enough to get them to hold their breath and make a dash for freedom ... they’d never survive being in the mist for as long as it would take them to blunder through.
As if to underscore that observation, the mist lapped a little higher just below his hiding place. A wisp of it eddied up, and he got a faint whiff of something that burned his mouth and throat and made his eyes water. He coughed it out as the mist ebbed again.
Poisonous and caustic. First, burns to madden them further, then the poison. They’re horribly susceptible to poisons; they’d probably get fatal doses just through skin contact, through the area of the burn.
No, no hope there.
He rubbed his eyes to clear them, and sent Vree to perch in the tree over his head. Another of the dyheli called mournfully, and the cry cut into his heart. He knuckled his eyes again, blinking through burning eyes, but still could see no way out of the trap.
Even the spring-fed waterfall was not big enough to do more than provide a little water spray and a musical trickle down the rocks. There was no shelter for even one of the dyheli behind it.
I can’t bear this, he decided, finally. All I could do is shoot them and give them a painless death, or leave them, and hope that whatever this poison is, it disperses on its own—or maybe won’t be able to get past the mist that the waterfall is throwing.
Two choices, both bad, the second promising a worse death than the first. His heart smoldered with frustration and anger, and he swore and pounded his fist white on the rock-hard dirt, then wiped the blood off his skinned knuckles. No! Dam
mit, it’s not fair, they depended on Tayledras to protect them! There has to be someth—
He looked back into the valley, at the tugging of an invisible current, a stirring in the fabrics of power, the rest of his thought forgotten.
A sudden shrilling along his nerves, an etching of ice down his backbone, that was what warned him of magic-magic that he knew, intimately, though he no longer danced to its piping—the movements of energies nearby, and working swiftly.
His fingers moved, silently, in unconscious response. He swung his head a little, trying to pinpoint the source.
There-
The mist below him stirred.
The hair on the back of his neck and arms stood on end, and he found himself on his feet on the floor of the valley before the wall of mist, with no memory of standing, much less climbing down. It didn’t matter; magic coiled and sprang from a point somewhere before him, purposeful, and guided.
Striking against the mage-born wall of poison.
The mist writhed as it was attacked, stubbornly resisting. Magic, a single spell, fought the mist, trying to force it to disperse. The mist fought back with magic and protections of its own. It curdled, thickened, compacted against the sides and floor of the valley, flowing a little farther toward the dyheli.
The spell changed; power speared through the mist, cutting it, lancelike. A clear spot appeared, a kind of tunnel in the cloud. The mist fought again, but not as successfully this time.
Darkwind felt it all, felt the conflicting energies in his nerves and bones. He didn’t have to watch the silent battle, he followed it accurately within himself—the spell-wielder forcing the mist away, the mist curling back into the emptying corridor, being forced away, and oozing back in again. He reached out a hand, involuntarily, to wield power that he had forsaken-
Then pulled his hand back, the conflict within him as silent and devastating as the conflict below him.
Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Page 14
