Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Then again, Cinnabar is the soul of discretion. She might already have recognized Winterhart, and she's keeping quiet about it. If there were no compelling reasons to unmask Winterhart, Cinnabar would probably let things stand.

  Now that he came to think about it, ever since he had begun Winterhart's treatments, Lady Cinnabar had been very silent on the subject of that particular Trondi'irn. This despite Cinnabar's intervention at the time of the "hertasi incident." The Healer had been as angry as anyone else over Winterhart's parroted orders, but since then she had not said a word about Winterhart even when others discussed something she had said or done. Perhaps Cinnabar recognized her, or perhaps not; in any event, the Lady was a powerful enough Empath as well as a Healer to realize, once she had been around the Trondi'irn for any length of time, how much of Winterhart's coldness was due to emotional damage and fear.

  Little by little, she reveals herself to me, as she begins to trust me. But I think this may be the most difficult case I have ever dealt with. Zhaneel was simple in comparison; she only needed to learn how outstanding she was, and to be given a way to succeed on her own terms. Once she had those, she blossomed. Winterhart has so pent herself up that I do not even know who she truly is, only what the facade and the cracks in it tell me. Winterhart is afraid, every moment of her life, and she has yet to show me what she is afraid of.

  Maybe that was why she had taken Conn Levas into her bed. The man was appallingly simple to understand.

  Simply give him everything he wants, and he is happy to let you have an identity as "his woman." He is protection, of a sort, because he is so possessive about everything he thinks is his. He doesn't even know she isn't a Kaled'a'in. He thinks she is, just because of the name, that's how unobservant he is.

  Then again, that was simply a reflection of what Amberdrake already knew. A mercenary mage, in this war only for the pay, would have to be unobservant. Anyone who could even consider being in the pay of Ma'ar would have to be completely amoral.

  But Conn Levas was incidental to the puzzle. Amberdrake laid his forearm across his eyes for a moment, and tried to put the pieces he had so far into some kind of an arrangement. When she joined the army, it had to be for a reason. I don't know what that reason is yet. But she joined it under a cloud of fear, terrified that her identity would be revealed, even though, since she is very intelligent, she must have chosen the profession of Trondi'irn because it was utterly unlike anything else she had been known for in her previous identity. She may also have taken that position because of another fear; the Trondi'irn do not normally go anywhere near the front lines. I know that fighting terrifies her. I know that she is horribly afraid of what Ma'ar and his mages can do.

  He had seen her in the grip of that fear himself, more than once, when the two of them had been together at a moment when news came in from the front lines. She controlled herself well, but there was always an instant when absolute terror painted her features with a different kind of mask than the facade of coldness she habitually wore.

  So, when Conn Levas propositioned her, it must have seemed sent from the gods. Perhaps he even wooed, charmed her. I am certain that he has the ability to do just that, when he chooses. He had a position with Sixth Wing; so would she. He had an identity that no one questioned; so would she, as "his woman." No one would ask her anything personal. And she could do her job among the gryphons impersonally—after all, they were "obviously" nothing more than sophisticated animals. She could deal with them on terms that cost her nothing, other than a bit of energy.

  That was where Zhaneel had inadvertently shaken up her world as much as Amberdrake had. The gryfalcon had forced Winterhart to accept the fact that the gryphons in her charge were not "sophisticated animals" with limited ability to ape human speech—for she had tried to convince herself that they were only something a little larger than a messenger-bird, but along the same lines.

  But Zhaneel changed all that. Zhaneel showed her in no uncertain terms that these charges of hers were people. And she had an obligation to them, to see that they received treatment as such, with consideration, politeness, and decency. She had an obligation to act as their advocate to the commander of Sixth Wing.

  She was in every way as responsible for them as their commander was.

  She had not wanted to know that; it was putting stresses on her that showed up when she came to get her treatments for her back from Amberdrake. So long as the gryphons had not been "people" to her, she had been able to cope. Now they were real to her, as they had not been before. Now she had to look at them and know there were personalities there behind the beaks and alien eyes, personalities like those of every human in the ranks. She was sending people off into the war to be swallowed up, and she could no longer ignore that fact. She had begun to feel again, and ironically, it was that very fact that was sending tremors through her relationship with her lover. As long as she had not been able to feel, she did not care what he did to her, said to her, or how he treated her. Now she did care, and she was no longer giving him the absolute deference he required. That much came through in the edited things that she told Amberdrake.

  Circumstances have been keeping them separated quite a bit, but once this operation is over, he'll be back, wanting "his rights." She's not going put up with his arrogance and indifference to her feelings anymore; she is bound to break off with him. I don't think she's been sleeping with him much even when he's in camp; maybe she's been finding reasons to avoid their tent. I wonder if I should see if he's been going to any of the perchi? Or should I stay out of it?

  It was hard to tell; this was not the usual client-kestra'chern relationship, and had not been since the beginning. And of the two people in the relationship, only one was currently his client. How much interference was too much? When did "need to know" end and "snooping" begin?

  And she was so profoundly damaged, so terribly brittle. A confrontation with Conn Levas would shatter her, for he would not hesitate to use the most hurtful things he could think of against her. Yet, under her fragility, there was a core of strength that he would like to have the privilege of calling on, from time to time. He needed a confidant as much as she did, and he had the feeling that once she sorted herself out, she would be able to fill that need better than anyone he knew. He sensed that he could trust her, and there were not many people that a kestra'chern could trust. All too often, the profession became a bone of contention, or a cause for derision. But somehow he knew that Winterhart would never do that to him; no matter what, she would keep the things she knew would hurt the most under the tightest control.

  He knew that. Even though he couldn't have told why he was so certain about it.

  This end of camp was very quiet, unusually so for the middle of the day. Off in the distance, he heard a sergeant bellowing orders, but here there was scarcely more than the chattering of messenger-birds and the occasional rattle of equipment. He guessed that most of the other kestra'chern had opted for a nap, in anticipation of being needed when the Sixth returned. Well, all this thinking is not getting the dinner taken care of. And I do have my share of it to do!

  He was as relaxed as he was going to get, and the tension-headache that had threatened to bloom while he was counseling Winterhart had gone away.

  He took his arm away from his eyes and rolled off the bed. Time to get to work. First thing; find out what was happening with the Sixth and the attempt to retake Stelvi Pass. If all went well, the first gryphons from Sixth Wing, Zhaneel leading, should be coming back about now. But there would be more than enough folk crowding the landing field at the moment, and this was not supposed to be a mission whose purpose was widely known. No point in making a spectacle when someone might make some inferences.

  So—find a messenger-bird, or appropriate one.

  The birds were easy enough to come by most times; they swarmed the camp, and all you had to do to attract one was to scatter some of their favorite seed on the ground and wait. Amberdrake didn't need the services of a b
ird often, but he did have a small store of the succulent sunseeds handy, since people liked the savory seeds as well as the little birds did. And Amberdrake was no exception to that liking.

  He had a bag in his quarters, next to the bed; he dug out a handful, and took the fat, striped seeds to the cleared area in front of the tent, where he scattered them in a patch of sunlight. A few moments later, he had his choice of a dozen birds, all patterned in every color imaginable. They pounced on the seeds with chortles and chirps, making a racket all out of proportion to their small size.

  He watched them for a moment, trying to pick out a smart one, then chose a clever little fellow whose colors of red and black with vivid blue streaks in his hackles made him easy to see at a distance. He whistled to it and leaned down to extend his hand, sending it a little tendril of comforting thought to attract it. The bird hopped onto his outstretched hand with no sign of fear and waited for his orders, cocking its head sideways to look at him.

  While these were not the altered birds of prey favored by the Kaled'a'in, they were able to respond fairly well to limited mental commands. Amberdrake held the bird so that he could look directly into one bright bronze eye, and made his orders as simple as he could.

  :Go to gryphon-field. Wait for gryphons. Look for this one—: He mentally sent an image of Zhaneel. :Listen, return, and repeat what you heard.:

  That last was a fairly common order, when someone wanted to know what was going on in another part of the camp. The birds could recall and repeat several sentences, and the odds were good that at least one of those sentences would give some idea of what was happening at a distant location. And if it didn't—well you could send the bird back to eavesdrop some more.

  The bird flew off, lumbering away rather like a beetle. They weren't strong flyers, and they were fairly noisy about it; their wings whirred with the effort of keeping their plump little bodies aloft, and they usually chirped or screeched as they flew. So if you didn't want anyone to know what you were about, you had plenty of warning before you actually saw a messenger-bird arrive to snoop. But many people made pets of specific birds, as much for their engaging personalities and clownish antics as for their usefulness, so you had to really go to an extraordinary amount of effort to avoid them.

  There would, without a doubt, be hundreds of birds waiting at the gryphons' landing field. Although it was supposed to be something of a secret that the Sixth Wing was going to try to retake Stelvi Pass, enough people knew that the area would look as if the birds had learned of a major sunseed spill there. That was the discreet way of learning about something the outcome of which was supposed to be a secret; send a bird to watch, rather than looking around yourself.

  And I am nothing if not discreet.

  Well, now that he had a winged informant aloft, it was time to get on with the dinner itself. The preparations on his part were fairly simple, since a dinner with gryphons was by necessity informal. He cleared the front of the tent of everything except the piles of pillows. He saved one each for himself and Gesten, and arranged the rest in two gryphon-sized "couches." On the rugs in front of these he placed waterproof tarpaulins; gryphons were not neat eaters.

  The buck, the quail, and the tub of trout were behind the tent, and Gesten was seeing to the cooking of his mushrooms and Amberdrake's quail. He had hinted that he would see to a few more small culinary surprises. So that much was taken care of.

  Amberdrake changed into his Kaled'a'in festival clothing; the real thing this time, and not the fancy kestra'chern fakery. A silk shirt, leather tunic and tight breeches, both beaded and fringed, and knee-high fringed boots. It was amazing how comfortable the leathers and silks felt, and how simply shedding his "identity" of Amberdrake the Kestra'chern made him relax a little further.

  I wonder if Winterhart has ever actually seen Kaled'a'in festival clothing—or if she is only familiar with what we would wear to blend in with folk from outClan?

  He was tying up his hair when the chattering of the messenger-bird brought him to the front of his tent.

  He held up his hand, his eyes straining to spot the red dot of the bird against the bright sky. The little red-and-black creature whirred in, and back-winged to a landing on his finger, still chattering at a high rate of speed. He placed one hand on its back to calm it, and it fell silent for a moment.

  As he took his hand away, it muttered to itself a little, then began repeating what it had heard. Although its voice was very much that of a bird, the cadences and accents were readily identifiable as individual people. Sometimes the clever little things could imitate a favorite person so well that you would swear the person it was imitating was there before you.

  But the first thing that the bird produced was a series of crowd noises, among which a few phrases were discernible. "She's exhausted." "Get water!" "It isss all rrright—" this last obviously being Zhaneel.

  Then the voice of Trainer Shire. "Zhaneel, I have a link to Urtho here, can you give him a quick report?"

  The bird spoke again in Zhaneel's voice, her sibilants hissed and r's rolled, much as Skan spoke when he was agitated or weary. "The box hasss worrrrked. It made explossssionssss, and killed many, ssso the sssticksss mussst have been sssshielded. Therrrre arrre injurrrred gryphonssss, but no dead. The ssssmoke wasss ssssprrreading when we rrrreturrrned, and the fighterrrsss moving in. The rrressst follow me."

  The bird imitated the sound of a cheering crowd with uncanny accuracy, Zhaneel saying that she was fine and would take care of herself, and the voice of Winterhart countermanding that, and ordering hertasi to be in readiness for injured gryphons coming in.

  Amberdrake very nearly cheered himself; he gave the little bird his reward of fruit and sent him off to rejoin his flock with such elation that he came close to giving the bird more fruit than it could carry away. He did kiss it, an endearment which the little clown accepted with a chortle, returning the caress with its mobile tongue.

  Zhaneel would be along after she made her longer report to Urtho in person, rested, and cleaned herself up a bit. Skan was due before she arrived; Amberdrake had decided to get the Black Gryphon settled first. Skan did not know that Zhaneel was the guest of honor at this feast; he thought it was simply a whim of Amberdrake's.

  In a short time the camp was alive with rumors, a steady hum of conversation coming from everywhere. Amberdrake knew that Skan, if he had not been at the landing field, would surely be in the thick of things and have all the news by the time he arrived.

  Gesten arrived even before Skan, pulling a laden cart. Amberdrake raised an eyebrow at that; he was not particularly concerned with the cost in tokens, but where in a war camp had the hertasi found so much in the way of treats?

  Never mind. Better not to ask. There were always those who had hoards of rarities, and were willing to part with them for a price. And tokens for the kestra'chern were prized possessions. Eventually, in an irony that Amberdrake certainly appreciated, there was no doubt that a fair number of those tokens would find their way back to his coffers, anyway.

  "Skan's on the way," Gesten said, as Amberdrake hurried to give him a hand. "I've got some real goodies in here. Hope he appreciates 'em."

  "Save the best for Zhaneel, she deserves it," Amberdrake told him with amusement.

  "Huh. Got a couple things for you, too, Drake. And don't tell me you don't need a treat, you've been wearing yourself out between that Winterhart, Zhaneel, and the Black Boy." Gesten pushed the cart to the back wall of the "public" room, and opened it up. "Look here—fresh nut-bread, good cheese, an' not that tasteless army stuff, a nice mess of vegetables, pastry, eels for Zhaneel, an' heart for Skan. Couldn't ask for better."

  "I have to agree to that," Amberdrake replied, a little dazed. "I don't think I want to know where you got most of that."

  "Legally," the hertasi said, turning up his snout saucily. "So none of your lip."

  "What about lip?" Skan said, pushing aside the tent flap. "Is Drake trying to give you excuses about why he can't h
ave a proper meal for a change?"

  "Oh, you know Drake," the hertasi replied before Amberdrake could even say a word in his own defense. "If no one else has something, he doesn't think he should have it either. Martyr, martyr, martyr."

  "That is not true," Amberdrake replied, going straight over to the cart and popping a bit of pastry into his mouth to prove Gesten wrong. "It is only that I do not think that I should take advantage of my position to indulge myself alone."

  "Oh?" Skan chuckled. "And what do you call this?"

  "Indulging a client," Amberdrake told him promptly. "You are one of my clients, aren't you?"

  "Well, yes—"

  "And you have been undergoing a prolonged and painful convalescence, haven't you?"

  "Well, yes—"

  "And you do deserve a bit of indulgence, don't you?"

  Skan coughed. "Well, I happen to—"

  "There, you see?" Amberdrake turned to Gesten in triumph. "Moral indulgence!"

  "My eye," the hertasi replied, chuckling, and began taking things out of the cart. Skan eyed the heart appreciatively and moved a little nearer.

  "Away from that, you!" Gesten slapped his beak. "That's your dessert. And stop drooling."

  "I wasn't drooling!" Skan replied with indignation. "I never drool!"

  It was on the tip of Amberdrake's tongue to say, "not even over Zhaneel?" but that would spoil the surprise. So he winked at Gesten, and gave the hertasi a hand in unloading the gloriously laden cart, while Skan stood by and made helpful comments.

  "I hope you weren't planning on eating right away," Amberdrake said, as Skan settled down on his pile of pillows. "This is a little early for me, and I'd rather appreciate good food with a good appetite."

  "Oh, I can wait," the Black Gryphon replied lazily. "Besides, by now everyone knows about the operation at Stelvi and I expect you want to hear how the Sixth did."