Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate

by Mercedes Lackey

  “We‘re—both,” he replied, wondering who, or what, had spoken. Surely not the Companions? Surely he would have detected them “listening in” on the conversation. Wouldn’t he?

  “Each method of teaching is a philosophy,” he continued, mind alert for other intrusions. “We differ in how we use our magic and how we are willing to obtain power.”

  How much should he tell them, and how much should he leave in Jendar’s hands?

  Better stick to the basics. “White Winds takes nothing without permission, and we try to do the least amount of harm we can. We also think that since Mage-Talent is an accident of birth, we have the obligation to use it for the sake of those who were never born with it.” Then he grinned. “But there’s no reason why a mage can’t make a living at the same time, so long as he doesn’t knowingly use his powers to abet repression or aid others who abuse their powers. But that’s why you don’t find many White Winds mages working with mercenary companies. When you’re a mere, you can’t guarantee that you’re going to be working for the right side.”

  “At least we don’t have to worry about that,” Elspeth said. Skif simply raised an eyebrow—and Quenten had the distinct feeling that Skif was debating how much to tell him.

  “I assume you’ve heard of blood-path mages?” he asked, and was surprised when Skif shook his head. “Oh. Hellfire, I guess I had better tell you, then. They’re mages who take their power from others.” He waited expectantly, for them to make the connection, then added, a little impatiently, “By killing them. Usually painfully. And by breaking and using them, if they have the time to spare.”

  Elspeth’s eyes widened. “That’s what Ancar is doing—or at least, that’s what some of the people who’ve escaped from Hardorn say he and his mages are doing. I didn’t know there was a name for them.”

  Skif scowled. “So, which school teaches people to do that?” he asked, growling a little.

  Quenten shrugged. “There are schools, but the moment anyone finds out about them, they’re destroyed. If the mages haven’t scattered first, which is what usually happens. No sane ruler wants that on his soil. But to tell you the truth, that kind of magic usually isn’t taught in a school, it’s usually one-to-one. A blood-path mage who decides to take an apprentice just goes looking for one. They try to find people who have potential but are untrained.”

  “And can’t tell one mage from another?” Skif asked, with a hard look at him. Quenten nodded; Skif had already seen what he was driving at.

  “Sometimes; sometimes they look for someone who is impatient, who is power-hungry and ruthless. That’s the kind that usually rebels eventually; has a confrontation with his master, and either dies, wins, or has a draw that both walk away from. And that is how they reproduce themselves, basically.” Quenten did not mention what happened in the first example; he decided, all things considered, it was better to wait until Elspeth was gone.

  “Now, there’s one thing I have to warn you about, and it’s back to the same old story of ‘you aren’t in Valdemar anymore.’ For every rule there’s an exception—and this is the one to blood-magic. There are perfectly good people that practice a couple of forms of magic that require a blood-sacrifice. The Shin‘a’in shamans, for one. Sometimes they spill their own blood, just a little, because any spillage of blood releases a lot of power. And in times of a very dire problem, a shaman or Swordsworn may actually volunteer as a sacrifice, as a kind of messenger to their Goddess that things are very bad, they need help, and they are willing to give up a lot to get it.”

  Elspeth’s eyes got very wide at that. “You’re joking—”

  Quenten shook his head. “I am not joking. It’s very serious for them. It hasn’t happened in the last three or four generations—and the last time it did, the Plains were in the middle of a drought that had dried even the springs. People and herds were dying. One of the shamans threw himself off the top of the cliffs that ring the Plains. Right down onto an altar he’d set up down there.”

  “And?” Skif asked.

  “And the drought ended. They say that he roams the skies of the Plains as a spirit-bird now. Some even say he transformed as he fell, that he never actually hit the ground.” It was Quenten’s turn to shrug. “I’m not their Goddess, it’s not my place to make decisions. What’s better; answer every little yelp for help, or make people prove they need it?”

  “I don’t know,” Skif admitted. Elspeth just bit her lip and looked distressed. “But I can see what you mean; we really aren’t home, are we?”

  “There’s a lot of gray out here, and precious little black and white,” Quenten replied with a hint of a smile. “The Shin‘a’in aren’t the only odd ones, either. There’re the Hawkbrothers, what the Shin‘a’in call Tale‘edras. Nobody except the Shin’a‘in shamans knows anything about them, mostly because they tend to kill anybody that ventures into their territories.”

  Skif scrutinized him closely for a moment. “If you’re waiting for a gasp of horror, Master Quenten, you aren’t going to get one. There’s a reason you told us this, and it has to do with the situation not being black and white. So? Why do they kill people who walk across their little boundary lines?”

  Quenten chuckled. “Caught me, didn’t you? All right, there’s a reason that I think is a perfectly good one—and to be honest, they will try and turn you back; it’s only if you persist that they’ll kill you. The Shin‘a’in say that they are the guardians of very destructive magics, that they ‘purify’ a place of these magics, then move on. And that they kill persistent intruders so that those intruders can’t get their hands on that magic. Seems like a good reason to me.”

  Skif nodded. “Any evidence to support this?”

  Quenten raised an eyebrow. “Well, their territories are all in the Pelagirs, and there are more weird, twisted, and just plain evil things in there than you could ever imagine. And they do periodically vanish from a place and never come back, and once they’re gone, anybody that moves in never has trouble from the oddling things again. So? Your guess is just as valid as mine. I’d believe the Shin‘a’in, personally.”

  Skif’s eyes were thoughtful, but he didn’t say anything. Elspeth stifled a yawn at that moment, and looked apologetic.

  “It isn’t the stories, or the company, Master Quenten,” she said ruefully. “It’s the long ride and the wonderful meal. We started before dawn, and we got here just before sunset. That’s a long day in the saddle; Skif’s used to it, but I’m a lot softer, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I can’t blame you for that,” Quenten chuckled. “The truth is, I’m not up to a day in the saddle myself, anymore. Why don’t you find that bed I showed you? I was thinking of calling it a night, myself.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and finished the last of the wine in her glass, then pushed herself away from the table. She gave Skif an opaque look but didn’t say anything.

  “Good night, then,” Quenten supplied. “I’ll see you off in the morning, unless you want to stay longer.”

  “No, we’re going to have to cover a lot of ground and we’re short on time,” she replied absently, then smiled. “But thank you for the offer. Good night.”

  Skif looked after her for a moment after the door had closed, then turned to Quenten. “There’s something else you didn’t want her to hear,” he said, “About those blood-path mages. What is it?”

  A little startled by Skif’s directness, Quenten came straight to the point. “It’s about the ones who are looking for an ‘apprentice’—or at least they call it that—who is untrained but powerful. The ones looking for someone who is totally naive about magic. Like your young friend there.”

  Skif nodded, his eyes hardening. “Go on.”

  “What they’re looking for is the exact opposite of someone like themselves. They have two ways of operating, and both involve subversion.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “The first is to corrupt the innocent.”

  “Not possible,” Skif interjected. “Trust me on that one. If
you’ve ever heard that Heralds are incorruptible, believe it.”

  Well, anyone who rides around on a Guardian Spirit probably is, no matter what people say about everyone having a price. I suppose Heralds do, too, but it’s not the kind of price a blood-path mage could meet. “Well, the other is destruction. Luring the innocent into a place of power, then breaking him. Or her.” Quenten gave Skif a sharp look. “And don’t tell me that you can’t be broken. Anyone can be broken. And a blood-path mage has all the knowledge, patience, and means to do so. Their places of power are usually so well guarded that it would take a small army to get in, usually at a terrible cost, and by the time they do, it’s usually too late. That’s if you can find the place because besides being protected, it will also be well-hidden.”

  Skif had the grace to blanch a little. “Nice little kingdom you have here.”

  “Oh, there aren’t ever a lot of that kind, but they do exist,” Quenten replied. “And that’s why I’m warning you. You don’t have the ability to see the kind of potential she carries—but I do, and so will anyone else of my rank who happens to see her. That’s Master and above. And there are not only blood-path Masters, there are Adepts, trust me on that. One of those would be able to persuade you that he was your long-lost best friend if you weren’t completely on the alert for someone like that. In fact, the truth is that unless you’ve got introductions like I’m going to give you, I would be very wary of anyone who seems friendly. The friendlier they are, the warier I’d be. There isn’t a mage out here who has to go looking for pupils—they come to him. It’s a matter of the way things work; power calls to power. So if someone is out looking, it usually isn’t for anyone’s purposes but his own. The only people as a group that you can trust without hesitation are the Shin‘a’in and whoever they vouch for. Anyone else is suspect.”

  Skif’s eyes narrowed. “And you say she looks-attractive?”

  Quenten nodded soberly. “I hate to send you to bed with a thought guaranteed to create nightmares, but—yes. More than attractive. To put it bluntly, my friend, you are riding out into wolf territory with a young and tender lamb at your side. And the wolves can look convincingly like sheep.”

  Skif licked his lips, and the look in his eyes convinced Quenten that he hadn’t been wrong. This man was very dangerous, if he chose to be. And he had just chosen to be.

  Quenten could only hope the man was dangerous enough.

  Chapter Ten

  DARKWIND

  Vree dove down out of the sky with no warning whatsoever, coming straight out of the sun so that Darkwind didn’t spot him until the last possible second, seeing only the flash of shadow crossing the ground.

  “Treyvan! Look out!” he shouted, interrupting whatever it was Hydona was about to say.

  Treyvan ducked and flattened his crest, and Vree skimmed right over his head, his outstretched claws just missing the quill he’d been aiming for.

  Then, without faltering in the slightest, he altered his course with a single wingbeat, and shot back up toward the clouds, vanishing to the apparent size of a sparrow in a heartbeat.

  That was the single bad habit Darkwind had never been able to break him of. The gyre was endlessly fascinated by Treyvan’s crest feathers, and kept trying to snatch them whenever the gryphon wasn’t careful about watching for him.

  “Sorry,” Darkwind said, apologetically. “I don’t know what gets into him, I really don’t....”

  Hydona smothered a smirk. Treyvan looked up at the bird—who was now just a dot in the sky, innocently riding a thermal, as if he had never even thought about snatching Treyvan’s feathers—and growled.

  “Darrrrkwind, I do love you, but ssssome day I aaam going to sssswat that birrd of yourrrsss.” Hydona made an odd whistling sound, half-choked; Treyvan transferred his glare to his mate.

  “Sorry,” Darkwind repeated, feebly. “Ah, Hydona, you were saying?”

  “Oh, that therrre ssseems no rrreassson for the Changechild to haave sssaved the dyheli. ” Hydona’s eyes still held a spark of mirth as Treyvan flattened his crest as closely to his skull as he could. “Unlessss she trrruly meant to be altmuissstic. And I sssuppose you could not judge how powerrrful a mage sssshee iss?”

  He shook his head. “Not on the basis of a single spell. If I were an Adept trying to worm my way into a Clan, I’d probably try and make myself look as harmless as possible, actually.”

  “Shhheee isss Otherrr,” Treyvan said, unexpectedly. Both Darkwind and his mate looked at him in surprise. “It iss the clawsss. Thossse cannot be changed from human bassse, only brrred in. Which meansss that she isss Otherrr, for the clawsss come frrrom the unhuman, and only the Othersss brrreed with them. Ssso ssshe is Otherrr, at least in parrt.”

  Hydona nodded, slowly. “That iss trrue. I had forr gotten that.”

  Darkwind bit back a curse. That would make her even harder to slip past his father if he had to. A Changechild he might accept, with difficulty-but one who was even in part of the Others, the blood-path mages of the Outlands? Not a chance.

  “But if she’s Other, what was she doing, that close to k‘Sheyna?” he asked.

  Treyvan ruffled his feathers in the gryphon equivalent of a shrug. “It ssseemsss obviousss that sshe could haave many motivessss.”

  True. Darkwind could think of several. She could be a spy; she could still have been trying to escape a cruel master. She could even be an Adept herself, and have inflicted all those hurts on herself with the intent of lulling their suspicions.

  “We could,” Hydona offered unexpectedly, “quesstion her for you. We arrre asss effective asss the vrondi at sssensssing falsssehood. It isss insstinct.”

  They are? That was news to him—though welcome news. Somehow the gryphons kept pulling these little surprises out of nowhere, keeping him in a perpetual state of astonishment.

  “That would be—damned useful,” he replied honestly. “The Truth-Spell is still a spell, and I don’t want to use it. Not this close to the border. I can’t chance attracting things to the hertasi settlement, or to k‘Sheyna, either.”

  “It isss insstinct with usss,” Treyvan repeated, to reassure him. “Not a ssspell. Perhapsss, though, you ought to be therrre alsso. Ssshe will probably be verrry afrraid of usss.”

  He smiled. “Considering that you’re large enough to really bite her head off if you wanted to, you’re probably right,” he said. “And that might not be a bad thing, either. If we keep her frightened, we have a better chance of catching her in a lie, don’t we?”

  “Yessss,” Treyvan agreed. “It doesss not affect the trrruth asss we sssensse it, fearr.”

  “Good; I’ll be with you, so that she doesn’t try to run, but you two loom a little bit. Be the big, bad monsters, and I’ll be her protector.” But another thought occurred to him, then. He’d been planning on what to do to find out more about her; he still had no idea what to do with her.

  “What do I do with her if she seems all right?” he asked. “I can’t possibly take her into the Vale.”

  “Worrry about that when—and if—the time comesss,” Treyvan said quietly. “It isss eassy to make a decission about a frrriend. I would worrrry more about how to dissspossse of herrr. If ssshe issss falssse, leave herrr to usss. If you like. We can dissspatch her.”

  “No,” he said, quickly. “No, that’s my job.” It made him sick to think of killing in cold blood, but it was his job, and he would not put the burden on someone else. Not them, especially. There’s such an—innocence—about them. I won’t see it stained with a cold-blooded murder, no matter how casually they think of doing it. It would matter to me, even if it doesn’t seem to matter to them.

  Treyvan shrugged. “Very well, then,” he said. “Ssshall we meet you therrre?”

  “Fine,” he replied. And couldn’t help but grin. “Even if it does mean another trek through the marsh. The things I do for duty!”

  Treyvan just laughed, and spread his wings. “Jussst keep that birrrd frrom my crrrest. He be
ginsss to look tasssty!”

  And as Darkwind turned to head back, he was mortally certain that the gryphon was thinking of all those quill-snatching attempts by Vree, and chuckling at the notion of dining on the poor gyre. The gryphons were very catholic in what they considered edible; just as Vree would happily dine on a kestrel, a fellow raptor, the gryphons would probably be just as willing to make a morsel of Vree.

  Except that Vree was Darkwind’s. That alone was saving him from becoming Treyvan’s lunch—in reality, if not in thought.

  :Featherhead,: he Mindspoke up to the dot in the blue, :You have no notion how close to the cliff you’ve been flying.:

  :Cliff?: responded Vree, puzzled. :What cliff? Where cliff?:

  I can’t tell if he’s playing coy, or he really doesn’t understand me.

  Darkwind sighed, and waded into the murky water. :Never mind. Just stop teasing the gryphons. Leave Treyvan’s feathers alone, you hear me?:

  :Yes,: said Vree slyly. “Yes,” that he’d heard Darkwind, not that he’d obey.

  Darkwind groaned. No wonder Father doesn’t listen to me. I can’t even get respect from a bird.

  Nera met him at the edge of the swamp, popping up out of nowhere right into his path and scaring a year out of him. He yelped, one foot slipped off the path and into who-knew-how-deep, smelly water, and he teetered precariously for a moment before regaining his balance.

  He glared at the hertasi, snarling silently. Nera blithely ignored the glare. :The winged ones are here,: he Mindspoke. :The creature you brought is also awake.:

  And with that, he vanished again, melting back into the reeds.

  Darkwind closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think charitable thoughts. He let me leave the girl here, and he’s worried because of her, the threat she represents. He was startled to see the gryphons. He’s preoccupied with other things. He forgets that I’m a lot clumsier in the swamp than he is.

  He grimaced. Sure he does. And I’m the Shin ‘a’in Goddess.