Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  She had not—probably could not—either break or change the spell. She could only fight it. That meant she was Journeyman at best, and that the energy to create the tunnel of safety had come directly from her. It was what made Journeymen so hard to track; since the only disturbances in the energy-flows of mage-energies were those within themselves, they couldn't be detected unless one was very nearby. And, thank the fourfold Goddess, that was what had kept her magics from attracting anything else. Probably he had been the only creature close enough to detect her meddling.

  But that was also what limited a Journeyman's abilities to affect other magic, and limited his magical "arsenal" as well. When the energy was gone, the mage was exhausted, sometimes to the point of catatonia depending on how tar he wanted to push himself, and there was no more until he was rested.

  That was what brought the Changechild to this pass; depleting herself, on top of her poor physical condition, then taking one whiff too many of the poison mist. She might be a long time in recovering.

  But Darkwind could not, in all conscience, leave her where she was. It wasn't safe, and he could not spare anyone to protect her. And even if it was safe, she might not recover without help; he didn't know enough of Healing to tell.

  He rested his chin on his knee and thought.

  I need someplace and someone willing to watch her and keep her out of mischief. But I can't take her into the Vale; Father would slit her throat just for looking the way she does. I need a neutral safe-haven, temporarily—and then I need a lot of good advice.

  He knew where to find the second; it was coming up with the first that was difficult.

  Finally with a tentative plan in mind, he hefted her over his shoulder again—with a stern admonition to his body to behave in her proximity, as her sexual attraction redoubled once he was close to her.

  His body was not interested in listening.

  Finally, in desperation, he shielded—everything. And thought of the least arousing things he could manage—scrubbing the mews, boiling hides, and finally, cleaning his privy. That monthly ordeal of privy-scrubbing was the only thing that ever made him regret his decision to move out of the Vale....

  The last worked; and with a sigh of relief, he headed off to the nearest source of aid he could think of.

  :Vree!: he called.

  The bondbird dove out of the branches of a nearby tree; he felt the gyre's interest at his burden, but it was purely curiosity. The Changechild—thank the stars—was of the wrong species to affect Vree.

  If she'd been tervardi, though—she'd have gotten to both of us. And I don't think Vree's as good at self-control as I am. I would truly have had a situation at that point.

  :Where?: the bondbird replied, with the inflection that meant "Where are we going?"

  :The hertasi, Vree,: he Mindspoke back. :The ones on the edge of k'Sheyna. This-one hurt-sleeps.:

  :Good.: Vree's Mind-voice was full of satisfaction; the hertasi liked bondbirds and always had tidbits to share with them. He could care less about Darkwind's burden; only that she was a burden, and Darkwind was hindered in his movements. :guard.:

  Which meant that he would stay within warning distance just ahead of Darkwind, alert at all times, instead of giving in to momentary distractions.

  Unlike his bondmate....

  Latrines, he thought firmly. Cleaning out latrines.

  Nera looked up at Darkwind—it was hard for the diminutive hertasi to do anything other than "look up" at a human—his expressive eyes full of questions.

  :And what if she wakes?: the lizard Mindspoke. He turned his head slightly, and the scales of the subtle diamond pattern on his forehead shifted from metallic brown to a dark gold like old bronze. Nera was the Elder of the hertasi enclave and an old friend; Darkwind had brought his burden—and problem—straight to Nera's doorstep. Let the mages discount the hertasi if they chose, or ignore them, thinking them no more than children in their understanding and suited only to servants' work. Darkwind knew better.

  :I don't think she will,: Darkwind told him honestly. :At least not until I'm back. I risked a probe, and she is very deeply exhausted. I expect her to sleep for a day or more.:

  Nera considered that, his eyes straying to the paddies below, where his people worked their fields of rice. The hertasi settlement itself was in the hillside above a marsh, carefully hollowed out "holes" shored with timbers; with walls, floors and ceilings finished with water-smoothed stone set into cement, and furnished well, if simply. The swamp was their own domain, one in which their size was not a handicap. They grew rice and bred frogs, hunted and fished there. They knew the swamp better than any of the Tayledras.

  That had made it easy for Darkwind to persuade the others to include them within the bounds of the k'Sheyna territory. The marsh itself was a formidable defense, and the hertasi seldom required any aid. A border section guarded by a treacherous swamp full of clever hertasi was something even the most stubborn mage would find a practical resource.

  Though they knew how to use their half-size bows and arrows perfectly well, and even the youngest were trained with their wicked little sickle-shaped daggers and fish-spears, the hertasi preferred, when given the choice, to let their home do their fighting for them. Enemies, for the most part, would start out chasing a helpless-looking old lizard-man, only to find themselves suddenly chest-deep and sinking in quicksand or mire.

  The hertasi were fond of referring to these unwelcome intruders as "fertilizer."

  Nera was still giving him that inquisitive look. Darkwind groaned, inwardly. There were some definite drawbacks to a friendship dating back to childhood. Old Nera could read him better than his own father.

  Thank the gods for that.

  The Changechild's attraction didn't work on Nera, any more than it did on Vree—but Darkwind had the feeling that the hertasi knew very well the effect it was having on the scout. And he was undoubtedly giving Darkwind that look because he assumed the attraction was affecting his thinking as well as—other things.

  Darkwind sighed. :All right,: he said, finally. :If she wakes and gives you trouble, she's fair game for fertilizer. Does that suit you?:

  Nera nodded, and his flexible mouth turned up at the corners in an approximation of a human smile. :Good. I just wanted to be certain that your mind was still working as well as the rest of you.:

  Darkwind winced. Nera was so small it was easy to forget that the hertasi was actually older than his father, and was just as inclined to remind him of his relative youth. And hertasi, who only came into season once a year, enjoyed teasing their human friends about their susceptibility to their own passions.

  It didn't help that this time Nera's arrow hit awfully near the mark.

  :I'm still chief scout,: he reminded the lizard. Anything that comes out of the Pelagirs is suspect—and if it's helpless and attractive, it's that much more suspect.:

  :Excellent.: Nera bobbed his muzzle in a quick nod. :Then give my best to the Winged Ones. Follow the blue-flag flowers; we changed the safe path since last you were here.:

  With that tacit approval, Darkwind again shifted his burden to the ground, this time laying her on a stuffed grass-mat just inside Nera's doorway. When he turned, the hertasi Elder had already rejoined his fellows, and was knee-deep in muddy water, weeding the rice. He might be old, but he had not lost any of his speed. That was how the hertasi, normally shy, managed to stay out of sight so much of the time in the Vale; they still retained the darting speed of that long-ago reptilian ancestor.

  Darkwind pushed aside the bead curtain that served as a door during the day, shaded his eyes, and looked beyond the paddies for the first of the blue-flag flowers. The hertasi periodically changed the safe ways through the swamp, marking them with whatever flowering plants were blooming at the time, or with evergreen plants in the winter. After a moment he spotted what he was looking for, and made his way, dry-shod, along the raised paths separating the rice paddies.

  Dry-shod only for the moment. Wh
en he reached the end of the cultivated fields, he pulled off his boots, meant mostly for protection against the stones and brambles of the dryland, fastened them to his belt, and substituted a pair of woven rush sandals he kept with Nera.

  Rolling up the cuffs of his breeches well above his knees, he waded into the muddy water, trying not to think of what might be lurking under it. The hertasi assured him that the plants they rooted along the paths kept away leeches, special fish they released along the safe paths would eat any that weren't repelled by the plants, and that he himself would frighten away any poisonous water snakes, if he splashed loudly enough, but he could never quite bring himself to believe that. It was very hard to read hertasi even when someone knew them well, and it was all too like their sense of humor to have told him these things to try and lull him into complacency.

  He could have gone around, of course, but this was the shortest way to get to the other side of the swamp, where the marsh drained off down the side of the craterwall into the Dhorisha Plains. The swamp, barely within k'Sheyna lands, ended at the ruins he sought—and when he had apportioned out the borders, he had made sure that both were within his patrolling area.

  One advantage of being in charge; I could assign myself whatever piece I wanted. Dawnfire gets the part facing on the hills that hold her friends, and I get the area that holds mine. Seems fair enough to me.

  Normally he didn't have to get there by wading through the swamp. This was not the route he chose if he had a choice.

  The water was warm, unpleasantly so, for so was the heavy, humid air. A thousand scents came to his nostrils, most of them foul; rotting plants, stale water, the odor of fish. He looked back after a while, but the hertasi settlement had completely vanished in waving swamp-plants that stood higher than his head. He thought he felt something slither past his leg, and shuddered, pausing a moment for whatever it was to go by.

  Or bite me. Whichever comes first.

  But it didn't bite him, and if there had been something there, it didn't touch him again. He waded on, watching for the telltale, pale blue of the tiny, odorless flowers on their long stems, poking up among the reeds. As long as he kept them in sight, he would be on the path the hertasi had built of stone and sand amid the mud of the swamp. There were always two plants, one marking each side of the path. The idea was to stop between each pair and look for the next; while the path itself twisted among the reeds and muck, it was a straight line from one pair of plants to the next. And there were false trails laid; it wasn't a good idea to break away from the set path and take what looked like a more direct route, or a drier one; the direct route generally ended in a bog, and the "dry" one always ended in a patch of quicksand or a sinkhole.

  Once again he was sweating like a panicked dyheli, and that attracted other denizens of the swamp. Below the water all might be peaceful, but the hertasi could do nothing about the insects above. Darkwind had rubbed himself with pungent weeds to enhance his race's natural resistance to insects, but blackflies still buzzed about his eyes, and several nameless, nearly invisible fliers had already feasted on his arms by the time he reached dry land again.

  There was no warning; the ruins simply began, and the marsh ended. Darkwind suspected that the marsh had once been a large lake, possibly artificial, and the ruins marked a small settlement or trading village, or even a guard post, built on its shore. If whatever cataclysm had created the Plains had not altered the flow of watercourses hereabouts, he would have been very surprised—and after that, it would have been logical for the lake to silt up and become a swamp. He climbed up on the stones at the edge of the swamp, slapping at persistent insects, vowing silently to take the long way around on his return.

  He looked up to make sure of Vree, and found the bondbird soaring overhead, effortlessly, in the cloud-dotted sky.

  Not for the first time, he wished for wings of his own.

  :And what would you do with them, little one?: asked a humor-filled mind-voice. :How would you hide and creep, and come unseen upon your enemies, hmm?:

  :The same way you do, you old myth,: he replied. :From above.:

  :Good answer,: replied Treyvan, and the gryphon dove down out of the sun, to land gracefully on a toppled menhir in a thunderous flurry of backwinging, driving up the dust around him and forcing Darkwind to protect his eyes with his hand until the gryphon had alighted.

  "Sssso, what brings you to our humble abode?" Treyvan asked genially, somehow managing to do what the tervardi could not, and force human speech from his massive beak.

  "I need advice, and maybe help," Darkwind told him, feeling as small as the hertasi as he looked up at the perching gryphon. Those hand-claws, for instance, were half again as wide and long as his own strong hands, and their tips were sheathed in talons as sharp and black as obsidian. Treyvan jumped down from the stone, and his claws clenched and released reflexively as the gryphon changed its position before him, absentmindedly digging inch-deep furrows into the packed earth.

  "Advissse we will alwayss have forrr you, feather-lessss sson. Advissse you will take? That iss up to you," Treyvan smiled, gold-tinged crest raising a little in mirth. "Help we will alwaysss give if we can, wanted orrr not."

  Darkwind smiled, and stepped forward to grasp the leading edge of the great gryphon's folded wing, and leaned in to run a hand through the spicy-scented neck feathers, seemingly unending in their depth. "Thank you. Where is Hydona?"

  "Sssearrrching for nessst-lining, I would guess." Treyvan let a trace of his pride show through, fluffing his chest feathers and raising his tailtip.

  "So soon? When... when will you make the flight?"

  "Sssoon, sssoon. You will be able to telllll...." Treyvan chuckled at Darkwind's blush, then half-closed his eyes, and Darkwind felt the wing-muscles under his hand relax.

  It was easy—very easy—to fall under the hypnotic aura of the gryphon, a state of dreamy relaxation brought on by the feel of the soft, silky feathers, the faintly sweet scent, the deep-rumble of Treyvan's faint purr. It was the gryphon himself who broke the spell.

  "You have need of usss, Darrrkwind," he reminded the scout. The muscles in the wing retensed, and he stood, wings tucked to his side under panels of feathers. "Let usss go to Hydonaaa."

  He turned and paced regally on a path winding deeper into the ruins. Darkwind had to hurry to keep up with his companion's ground-eating strides.

  The gryphons had arrived here, in these ruins, literally out of the sky one day, when Darkwind was seven or eight. He'd claimed these ruins—then, well within the safe boundaries of k'Sheyna territory—as his own solitary playground. There was magic here, a half-dozen ley-lines and a node, but the mages had decreed it safe; tame and unlikely to cause any problems. It was a good place to play, and imagine mysteries to be solved, monsters to conquer, magics to learn.

  Watching Treyvan's switching tail, he recalled that day vividly.

  He had rounded a corner, the Great Mage investigating possibly dangerous territory and about to encounter a Fearsome Monster, when he encountered a real one.

  He had literally walked into Treyvan, who had been watching his antics with some amusement, he later learned. All he knew at the time was that he had turned a corner to find himself face-to-face with—

  Legs. Very large legs, ending in very, very large claws. His stunned gaze had traveled upward; up the furry legs, to the transition between fur and feathers, to the feather-covered neck, to the beak.

  The very, very, very large, sharp, and wickedly hooked beak.

  The beak had opened; it seemed as large as a cave.

  "Grrr," Treyvan had said.

  Darkwind had turned into a small whirlwind of rapidly pumping arms and legs, heading for the safe-haven of the Vale, and certain, with the surety of a terrified eight-year-old, that he was not going to make it.

  Somehow he had; somehow he escaped being pounced on and eaten whole. He had burst into the ekele, babbling of monsters, hundreds, thousands of them, in the ruins. Since he had never
been known to lie, his mother and father had set up the alarm, and a small army of fighters and mages had descended on a very surprised—and slightly contrite—pair of gryphons.

  Fortunately for all concerned, gryphons were on the list of "friendly, though we have never seen one" creatures all Tayledras learned of some time in their teens. Treyvan apologized, and explained that he and Hydona were an advance party, intending to discover if these lands were safe to live and breed in. They offered their help in guarding k'Sheyna in return for the use of the ruins as a nesting ground. The Elders had readily agreed; help as large and formidable as the gryphons was never to be disdained. A bargain was struck, and the party returned home.

  But all Darkwind knew was that he was huddling in his parent's ekele, his knife clutched in his hand, waiting to find out if the monsters were descending on his home.

  Until his parents returned: unbattered, unbloody, perfectly calm.

  And when he'd demanded to know what had happened, his father had ruffled his hair, chuckled, and said, "I think you have a new friend—and he wants to apologize for frightening you."

  Treyvan had apologized, and that had begun the happiest period of his life; when everything was magical and wondrous, and he had a pair of gryphons to play with.

  He hadn't realized it at the time, but it hadn't entirely been play. Treyvan and Hydona had taught him a great deal of what he knew about scouting and fighting, playing "monster" for him as they later would for their fledglings, teaching him all about dangers he had not yet seen and how to meet them.

  Now he knew, though he had not then, that they had chosen the ruins deliberately, for the magic-sources that lay below them. Magic energies were beneficial for gryphon nestlings, giving them an early source of power, for gryphons were mages, too. A different kind of mage than the Tayledras, or other humans; they were instinctive mages, "earth-mages," Hydona said, using the powers about them deftly and subtly for defense and in their mating flights, for without a specific spell, a mating would not be fertile.