Kra‘heera blinked, and smiled faintly. He had forgotten how powerful the memories knotted into this weaving were. Ravenwing had been a formidable, strong-minded woman, and had managed to weave in not only the memories, but the emotions she had felt at the time.
That, of course, was the secret of the shamanic weavings; they held the memory of every shaman who worked upon them. This weaving held not only Ravenwing, but the half dozen who had followed her in those eventful days. Other weavings held the memories of more shamans than that; often in the Plains these days, there was little to record for years or even decades.
The most significant weavings were kept here, where all the Clans could have free access to them. There were more than four Clans now, and it was part of the training of a shaman that he come here, to experience the beginning of the Shin‘a’in, the People of the Plains, for himself.
Ravenwing was responsible for making a great deal of the early training of shaman a part of the education of every Shin‘a’in, so that every Shin‘a’in could invoke the Powers at need. In the event of a Clan losing their shaman, it would be less of a problem to wait on the training of another than it had been in the old days.
She had also been responsible for insisting that whenever possible, more than one shaman and apprentice be resident with each Clan. And she had been the shaman who created the first of the Kal‘enedral, those warriors who served, not any one Clan, but all of the Clans together.
Altogether a remarkable woman, indeed.
Kra‘heera turned slowly toward his own apprentice, and waited for the memories the shaman had invoked to release the younger man. Finally Tre’valen blinked, and shook his head slightly.
“All that is left is for you to learn the unlocking of these memories, and the weaving of them yourself,” Kra‘heera told the apprentice. “But that was not why I brought you here now. Have you guessed why?”
Tre‘valen, who had already recovered from the effect of the alien memories on his own mind, nodded. “It is because of the rumors, I think,” he said. “There are rumors that the Plains have been disturbed. You wanted me to see for myself why it is the People guard them.”
Kra‘heera considered moving—but the memory-trance relaxed one rather than leaving one tense, and there was nowhere more secure from listeners than this place.
“The rumors are true,” he said. “There have been intruders on the Plains, intruders that only the shaman have been able to detect. The border guards cannot stop them, indeed, they have only recently caught sight of them at a distance. They are some kind of magic-made creatures from past the Tale‘edras lands, and they have entered from the northern side of the Plains, where the Plains meet the territory of the Tale’edras Clan k‘Sheyna.”
“The Falcons?” Tre‘valen said, curiously. “I do not know them.”
“I know a little, but not a great deal,” Kra‘heera admitted. “I know this much of the enemy: the things that have been looking about have an incredible ability to vanish and have never been seen clearly. They have been sniffing out magic, I think, and when they find it, I think they will call that which created them.”
“They could find many things,” Tre‘valen said grimly.
“And worst case, they could find the remains of the stronghold of Mage Urtho.” Kra‘heera nodded agreement. “I do not know if it would be possible for an attack to be mounted against the center of the Plains—but I do not know that it would not be possible.”
“What of k‘Sheyna?” Tre’valen asked anxiously. “Are the Hawkbrothers not pledged to help us when dangers come from out of their lands?”
“Yes, but k‘Sheyna, from the little I know, is a Clan with troubles of its own,” Kra’heera responded, after a moment to gather his thoughts. “I do not think they are capable of repulsing a single Adept just now, and if these creatures are the servants of not one, but an alliance of Adepts—well, I do not think there is much hope of aid from them.”
Tre‘valen grimaced. “So. What is it we need do?”
Kra‘heera mentally congratulated his apprentice; the youngster had cut to the heart of the matter, without wasting time on things that might or might not be.
“We need to bring together the shaman of two Clans, at least. Then, we must invoke the Kal‘enedral—the leshya’e-Kal‘enedral, as well as what physical Swordsworn we can muster.”
“The spirits?” Tre‘valen said in surprise. “We can invoke the spirit Swordsworn?”
“If needs must, yes, we can,” Kra‘heera told him. “It must be done through the living Swordsworn, but it is not done lightly. I think, however, we have little choice at this moment. The spirits bring with them some of Her power, Her magic, and with these, I think we can withstand these intruders. But to accomplish all this, there is one thing more we must have.”
“Time,” Tre‘valen responded promptly.
“Time,” Kra‘heera agreed. “And to gain time, we need a distraction for these things.”
“Hmm.” Tre‘valen’s face grew thoughtful, and Kra’heera felt a lifting of his heart. He had not been mistaken in this young man. Tre‘valen did not simply wait to do what he was told—he looked for answers.
“The young woman that Dira spoke of—” Tre‘valen said, slowly. “Just what is she? Why would she seek us?”
Kra‘heera wondered for a moment why Tre’valen’s mind had turned to the strangers, but the younger man was Gifted with the ability to sift through bits of information and extract unusual solutions. So here, in this safest of all places, the elder let his own mind range for a moment, asking for a vision that would sum up what these strangers were.
In a moment, he had that vision; the young woman and her friend—with white uniforms, and leshya‘e horses.
They were Heralds of Valdemar. He had no trouble recognizing the uniform; his cousin Kerowyn had one—though she seldom wore it willingly.
Only one Herald had ever entered the Plains—the great and good friend of Tarma shena Tale‘sedrin, long before Kra’heera had ever been born. Herald Roald was something of a minor legend among Tale‘sedrin, with his spirit-horse, and his undeniable charm. Other Clans’ children envied Tale’sedrin, who had hosted the ver‘Kal’enedral, the “White Swordsworn,” who brought them presents and took them for rides on his beautiful spirit-horse. Kra‘heera’s father had been one of those so honored, and for years thereafter he had told the children and grandchildren his tales, of the wind-swift horse that had the understanding of a man.
“They are Heralds, from the Queen in Valdemar,” he told his apprentice. “I do not know what brings them, but since our cousin Kerowyn is also one of them, I think that everything Dira told us could be true.”
“Hmm.” Tre‘valen nodded thoughtfully. “That must be tested, of course. As they must be tested.”
“But not by us.” Kra‘heera reminded him. “She must test and mark them. But—what were you thinking?”
“That they might prove worthy allies, perhaps enough to help us with these intruders.” Tre‘valen blinked, owlishly, in the moonlight. “Did you have any other thoughts? ”
“Yes,” Kra‘heera responded, smiling slowly. “I have in mind that they might become our distraction. They have to be tested in any case; why not make their testing a matter of seeing how they respond to these intruders?”
Tre‘valen frowned, which surprised his teacher. “Is this fair?” he demanded. “They do not know what it is they will encounter, nor do they know the Plains. We know the girl carries a magic thing, the spirit-sword. If these hunters are seeking out magic, will they not sniff it out? And what then?”
“Then they must defend themselves if the hunters come for them,” Kra‘heera said with a shrug. “They are outsiders, are they not? They must prove their worth, must they not? If She finds them worthy, perhaps She will aid them.”
“But what of us?” Tre‘valen asked. “Should we not aid them?”
“Why?” Kra‘heera responded. “I see no reason to aid them. If they survi
ve, very well. If they survive and grant us the time we need, we will aid them. If they do not?” He shrugged. “The Plains are ours to guard. She never told us that we were to take in random strangers who come looking for help from us. In fact, by allowing them to cross the Plains, we are granting them more than any other in all of our history. It is only because they are Heralds, and because they come from our cousin, that I allow this at all.”
Reluctantly, Tre‘valen nodded. “It is in the interest of the Clans,” he admitted. “But I cannot like it.”
“That which does not overcome us, strengthens us,” Kra‘heera replied callously. “This will be good for them. And here is what we shall do....”
Elspeth knew by a sudden change in the air that she was no longer alone in her little room.
Tonight she had demanded another room, separate from Skif’s. She was not going to share a room, much less a bed, with him anymore. She had hoped that would make it clear to him that she was not going to put up with his nonsense any more.
Skif had protested, but she had overruled him. Now she was sorry she had.
There was an intruder in her room, and if she was very lucky, it would only prove to be a thief.
She risked a quick mental probe, and met a block as solid as a wall of seamless marble.
Crap. It’s not a thief—
She started to reach for the knife under her pillows, and started to call for Gwena—only started; no more. She was frozen in place by a sudden flare of light.
It was the candle at her bedside, lighting itself. And at the foot of her bed was a sinister shadow, arms folded.
Clad in black from head to toe, veiled—there was no mistaking that costume. Kero had described and sketched it in detail, and no one here in Kata‘shin’a‘in would dare counterfeit it. Not here, not on the edge of the Plains.
Her intruder was Kal‘enedral—one of the Swordsworn. She relaxed marginally. If this one had wanted her dead, she would be dead, and there would have been none of this drama with the magically lighted candle.
The Swordsworn flicked his (her?) hand, tossing something at the bed. It glinted as it spun, coppery and metallic on one side, enameled on the other. It landed enamel side up; it bore the image of a gold-feathered hawk.
Tale‘sedrin. Children of the Hawk! She recognized it instantly; she had one identical to it in her belt-pouch, given to her by Kero as a way of identifying herself when she finally found the Tale’sedrin.
It seemed that they had found her.
“What—” she whispered—or started to. But the Swordsworn shook her (his?) head, and threw something else onto the bed. This time it was a piece of rolled vellum. Her eyes, caught by the movement, followed it for just a moment—hardly more than an eyeblink. But that was long enough. When she looked up again, the black-clad stranger was gone. There was no movement at either door or window to say which way he had taken—if, indeed, he had taken either.
:What happened?: Gwena demanded. :Are you all right?:
:Yes. Yes, I’m fine.: She told Gwena absently about her visitor as she picked up the vellum gingerly and unrolled it. Her heart, which had all but stopped, leapt and hammered with excitement.
It was a map of the Plains, the first such that she had ever seen. Or rather, the first such that she trusted. There had been plenty of folk who had offered her maps, but their reliability ranged from laughable to pathetic. This, from the hand of a Kal‘enedral of Kero’s own Clan, was something she thought she could put her trust in.
One thing stood out, on a map crowded with detail and closely written markers; an enigmatic little drawing, perched on the northern rim of the Plains, circled in bright red, very fresh, ink.
The Clans migrated with the season; could that be Tale‘sedrin’s current location?
Well, what else could it be? They know I’m looking for them; this is their answer. I have to come to them, they won’t be coming to me.
She said as much to her Companion.
:I don’t like it,: Gwena said, unhappily. :I don’t like it at all. You aren’t planning on going out there, are you? Well? Are you?:
Elspeth ignored her, letting her silence declare her intent. She was not about to argue with her Companion on this, and Gwena should have been able to anticipate just that reaction.
:I’d go for it, girl,: Need chuckled. :Hell of an opportunity. Probably testing you to see if you’ve got the guts to go into their stronghold. :
:You would go for it,: Gwena complained resentfully. :The worst that could happen to you is that you’d have to find yourself another bearer. Don’t listen to her, Elspeth.:
:You just want her to do what you planned for her,: the sword jeered.
:Both of you, shut up, dammit,: she “shouted”—and was rewarded by blessed silence.
She was going of course; there was nothing that was going to stop her. Not Gwena’s disapproval, or Skif’s; not the possible risk, or the distance involved. She was finally charting her own course and following a path that no one had planned for her.
And that, in itself, was reason enough.
Chapter Seventeen
DARKWIND
As he passed beneath the trees and away from open sky, Darkwind redoubled his shielding. When he had been fourteen and had been caught up in his friends’ mating-spell, it had been an accident, and one that brought all of them a great deal of chagrined amusement. But if he were to “eavesdrop” now, it would be deliberate—and since he had not been invited, he was not going to intrude on this most private of moments for them.
Or at least, he had not intended to intrude-
But he was given no choice, after all.
Everything seemed quiet up by the swamp, and he didn’t think there was any particular reason to double back and check the area beside the ruins; the gryphons themselves had made an aerial patrol of the forest before the flight. He doubted that anything large would have gotten in under cover of the trees.
On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to check the trails for signs of intruders. It wouldn’t take all that long.
He had just called to Vree, and was halfway through this particular patch of forest. He was heading in the direction of the path to the swamp and the hertasi, when a scream of agony cut the sky. A second scream answered the first. A heartbeat later, the world came apart for an instant.
At least that was what it felt like. He knew what it was as he slammed down another kind of shield and fought his senses clear; the resonating effect of a magic-blast, powerful, crude, and close at hand. And the tortured scream that had accompanied it, that echoed across the sky, and pierced all his mental shields, had come from Treyvan!
Vree was already shooting up through the treetops, streaking off in the direction of the shriek of rage and pain, screaming a battle cry of his own. Running all out, Darkwind followed on the ground as best he could.
This was wild land, hard to cross at any speed. He ran through it without any of his usual care—breaking branches, leaving behind tracks an infant could read, crashing through the undergrowth like a clumsy young deer in a panic. But still the terrain itself held him back; bushes clutched at him, roots tripped him up, thickets too thick to be forced blocked his way. Heedless of his own risk, he opened his mind to the gryphons, but heard—nothing.
And that was even worse than the cries had been.
Rage and fear blinded him to pain; rage and fear drove him through plum thickets, across a tumble of razor-sharp stone fragments, and loaned him wind and strength. His heart pounded too loudly for him to have heard danger coming up behind him; his soul was torn with claws of agony for what that silence might mean.
:Ahead!: called Vree, shooting under the tree branches like a winged arrow, turning faster than the eye could follow, and shooting away again. :Here!:
The bird was too excited and angry to manage anything more coherent than that. Darkwind plunged after him, his lungs burning, his side pierced with a lance of pure pain. Just when he thought that he could not possibly run
any farther, he literally stumbled into a tangle of broken branches, then over a fur-covered leg, and fell into a mass of broken brush before he could regain his balance.
The leg belonged to Hydona, who was sprawled in an unconscious tangle, bleeding from one torn and wounded wing.
“Come on, Treyvan,” Darkwind crooned, cradling the gryphon’s head in his hands, and slapping his beak lightly. “Come on, old boy. Wake up. Come on, Hydona needs your help; I can’t move her without you.” Treyvan lay in the middle of a half-crushed bush. It had obviously saved him worse injury when he hit the ground, but Darkwind couldn’t free him from the snarl of broken branches unless he could revive the male gryphon and get some help from him.
The eyelids fluttered, the beak opened a fraction, and closed again. The head stirred in Darkwind’s hands and Treyvan protested his treatment wordlessly. “Arrwk—rrrr—Daaa—Daaarrrwk—”
“That’s right, it’s Darkwind. Come on.” Darkwind slapped the beak a little harder, pulled at Treyvan’s crest-feathers. “Come on. Say something with some sense in it. Wake up, old friend.”
“Rrrrrrr.” The eyelids fluttered and stayed open this time; the weight of the gryphon’s head left Darkwind’s hands as Treyvan raised it a trifle. “Hydona—” the gryphon croaked, whining wordlessly with pain, as he tried to turn his head. “Hydona—”
“She’s hurt,” Darkwind told him, “but I think she’ll be all right. Her wing’s hurt, I don’t think she’s broken anything, and she’s kind of half-conscious, but I can’t get her out. I need to get you out of this tangle, so you can help me get her out of hers.”
“Can‘t—move—” the gryphon said, starting to thrash weakly in alarm. It was obvious then to Darkwind that Treyvan wasn’t really hearing him—that, in fact, he was only half-conscious.
He opened his shields to the gryphon, and touched him directly, mind to mind. :Don’t move till I tell you. You’re caught. Hydona is all right, but she’s hurt and tangled up in some brush, and I’m going to need your help to move her.:
Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Page 31
