Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Gwena plodded over to Elspeth's side and nosed her arm. :At least that piece of tin is useful as a Healer,: the Companion observed. :Are we going to find somewhere safe to rest, do you think? Someplace secure? I'd really like to go sleep for a week or so.:

  "Unless those gryphons saved us just to eat us themselves, I think we are," Elspeth responded, unable to muster much concern over the prospect of becoming gryphon-fodder. She had just learned the truth of something Quenten had warned her about. It took energy to use energy—and hers was spent, and overspent. Right now she was just about ready to pass out, safe or not.

  But the sound of a falcon's cry made her look up; there was an enormous raptor skimming along, barely clearing the tops of the stones, winging his way out of the forest. An omen? That would be all they needed now; something more to wonder about.

  For a moment, she thought it was her weary, blurring eyes that made the vegetation behind him seem to move, as if part of the forest had separated and was walking toward her. But then, the "vegetation" stepped a little farther out into the open and became a man.

  Her hiss of warning brought Skif’s head up, and they both struggled to their feet to meet the stranger standing, their Companions moving a little into the shadows out of immediate sight as they rose. She stood so that Need was not so obviously still in her hand; no point in looking belligerent.

  He was a somber-looking young man, tall, taller than Skif, and slender. And handsome, strikingly handsome, with a sculptured face and tough, graceful body. He'd already slung his bow across his back; a longbow, much more finely-crafted than anything Elspeth had ever seen in use before. His green, gray, and brown clothing blended so well with the forest that he faded into the background every time he paused. His long hair was an odd, mottled brown that helped with the camouflage-effect considerably. As he neared, Elspeth saw that he had the same piercing, ice-blue eyes and bone structure of the Shin'a'in she had seen, though his complexion was a paler gold than theirs.

  As the man drew nearer, the falcon wheeled and returned. Without looking, the stranger held out his gauntleted wrist, and the falcon—much larger, she realized, than any bird she had ever seen, other than, say, an eagle-dropped down gracefully to his fist, and settled itself with a flip of its wings.

  That was when she finally made the connection. Dear gods—he must be one of the Hawkbrothers. She felt as if she really had stepped into the pages of a legend; first she was visited by a Shin'a'in Kal'enedral, then chased by monsters, then rescued by gryphons—and now here was a Hawkbrother, a creature out of legends so remote that she had only found references to them in Vanyel's chronicles. Moondance and Starwind, Vanyel's friends—Mages, Adepts in fact, from the Clan of k'Treva.

  The man paused at a polite distance from the Heralds, and frowned, as if he wasn't certain how to address them, or which of them to speak to first. She wondered if she should solve his quandary.

  But before she could speak, he made up his mind. "Who are you?" he demanded arrogantly in trade-tongue. "What are you doing in Tayledras lands? Why are you here?"

  And who are you to ask? I didn't see any boundary markers! She drew herself up, answering his arrogance with pride of her own. "Herald Elspeth and Herald Skif, out of Valdemar. And we were chased here by monsters, as you likely noticed," she replied stiffly, in the same language. "We didn't exactly plan on it, and we didn't stop to ask directions. Any more questions?"

  To her surprise, he actually started to smile, at least a little. But that was when Gwena poked her nose from behind her Chosen, and looked at him with a combination of inquiry and tentative approval. His eyes widened and, to Elspeth's amazement, he paled.

  She took an involuntary step backward, and that brought Need into view. He glanced down, took a second, very surprised look, and went a little whiter.

  He mumbled something under his breath that sounded like Shin'a'in, but was different enough that she couldn't make out what he was saying. It seemed to have something to do with bodily functions.

  Well, as long as he'd seen the damned sword and hadn't interpreted it as hostility, she might as well put it away properly. She turned a little, fished a cleaning rag out of Gwena's saddlebag as he watched her warily, and began wiping the blade clean.

  It practically cleaned itself. Then again, maybe that wasn't surprising, all things considered. The Hawkbrother mumbled something again, and she looked up as she sheathed her sword properly, and wiped off her filthy hand. "What did you say?" she asked politely, but with a touch of the same arrogance he had been showing them.

  He shook his head, but he did seem to be unbending just a little. "Never mind," he said, "It matters not. It would seem that I am to add you to the colony of Outlanders I am collecting."

  "And what if we don't want to go?" she retorted, taken aback by his assumption that she would obey him without a second thought. "There are four of us and only one of you."

  "This is our land you trespass on. There are four of us," he corrected mildly, as the gryphons swooped in from behind her to land at his side, the wind created by their wings as they landed making a tiny tempest that blew dust into her face and made her squint. "And I think two of us are bigger than all of you."

  She tightened her jaw, refusing to be intimidated. "Is that a threat?" she snapped. "I think we might surprise you, if it is."

  He sighed. "No, it is not a threat; if you wish to descend to the Plains, you are free to do so. But I must tell you, there are four of us that stand guard here, I will not permit you to pass through Tayledras lands, and your escort still awaits you below the cliff. Our Shin'a'in brethren have not chosen to disperse them, and we above do not trespass upon the Plains without invitation."

  "Oh," she said, deflated. :What do you know about these people?: she asked the sword.

  :Not a damn thing,: Need replied. :Never heard of them, and I don't recognize the language. They're either something I never ran into, or they sprang up after my time.:

  The young man cleared his throat, delicately, recalling her attention. "I feel as if I must point out that you would not be safe from anything with that at your side."

  He pointed to the sword with his chin.

  She raised an eyebrow and looked back at Skif. He shrugged. "I don't think we have much choice," he said quietly.

  "Your friend speaks wisely," the Hawkbrother put in. "It may be your escort was attracted by you, or by the weapon you carry. It is magic, and such things are drawn by magic. I think that you would be safer in the company of two mages."

  "Two mages?" boomed out a new voice. Elspeth's heart leapt right out of her body, and only Gwena's shoulder behind her kept her on her feet as her knees dissolved from a combination of startlement and fear.

  "Two mages?" repeated the smaller of the gryphons. "Darrrkwind, do my earrssss decssseive me?"

  It talks, Elspeth thought, faintly.

  The Hawkbrother—Darkwind, if the gryphon had called him by his correct name—shrugged again. "This is neither the time nor place to speak of my decisions," he replied, and turned to the Heralds. "I phrased myself poorly. I think that you have no real choice. I think you must accept my hospitality, for your own safety and the safekeeping of that which you carry. Though what the Council will say of this," he added, looking at the gryphon who had spoken, and shaking his head ruefully, "I do not care to contemplate."

  The arrogance was back, an imperious quality more suited to a prince of some exotic realm than this—whatever he was. She wanted to angrily deny the fact that they needed protection of any kind, much less his. But much as she hated to admit it, she didn't want to have to face any more bizarre monsters. Not right away, anyway.

  :I think we'd better go along with him, Elspeth,: Skif Mindspoke tentatively, as if he expected her to turn on him and lash him with her anger for such a suggestion. :I don't know about you, but we can't face any more without some rest. And I really would like to know a little more about what's going on around here before we go charging off on our own.:


  He's some kind of Border Guard, she thought, though not without some resentment. It is his land. I could do with a little less of an attitude, though....

  She would have preferred to tell him exactly what he could do with his so-called "protection"—to tell him that she would be perfectly fine—to inform him in no uncertain terms, that whatever he thought, she had been sent here, to this very place, by those "Shin'a'in brethren" of his, and that she intended to wait here for them.

  On the other hand, she had no idea why the Shin'a'in had sent her here, nor if they themselves intended to meet her. Maybe all they had meant was to put her in the hands of these Hawkbrothers....

  :What do you think?: she asked Gwena.

  :That he is right, we have no choice,: came the Companion's prompt reply. :It is not necessarily a bad thing; you were in search of mages. He is a mage, so is the gryphon. And according to the chronicles, many of the Hawkbrothers are mages. They taught Vanyel, did they not, when the Herald-Mages could not?:

  :Let's see if someone's willing to come with us, or teach me, first,: she replied sourly. So, it was fairly well unanimous.

  "He's right," she told Skif shortly, in their tongue, much to the older Herald's relief. "And so are you. We're all tired, and as long as this isn't an imprisonment—"

  "I don't think it is," Skif replied. "I think he'd let us go if we really wanted to. I've got the feeling that we're kind of an annoyance to him, not something he'd keep around if he had the choice."

  That didn't make her feel any better. "All right," she told the Hawkbrother, trying to conceal her annoyance. "Where is it you want us to go?"

  Instead of replying, he gestured curtly for them to follow; she seethed a little at the implied discourtesy. As the gryphons lofted themselves into the air, she stood aside for Skif and Cymry to get by her. She did not want to follow him too closely just now; she was afraid she would lose what was left of her temper.

  She had gotten used to being the one making the decisions. Now she was again following someone else's orders. That galled her as much as this Darkwind fellow's arrogance.

  In fact, she decided somewhat guiltily as she led Gwena in Cymry's wake, it probably galled her more...

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Darkwind led the way for this strange parade of Outlanders, winding through the piles of stone on the weed-grown path that led from this end of the ruins to the gryphons' lair. It was a good thing that they had enlarged it; between two Outlanders, their spirit-horses, and Nyara, it would have been crowded otherwise. He wished strongly for something to ease his aching head, or to make him able to forget everything that had happened for the past several days. Or both.

  Well, perhaps not everything.

  I have my father back again. That was no small gain, even when weighed against all the grief and pain.

  He concentrated on staying on his feet; glad beyond telling that this incursion would likely mean there would be nothing more today. If only he were in his ekele—he had begun this day wearied and emptied of all strength, or so he thought. He had not found anyone able to take his patrol for him, so he had taken to the border, resigned to another stretch without rest. It had been two days without sleep, now.

  But it had been quiet, amazingly so—until, when (of course) he was at the very opposite end of his patrol, he sensed magic, powerful magic, being used somewhere near the gryphons' lair.

  He'd thought it might have been Treyvan, doing something to free the gryphlets from Falconsbane's control. But any hope he'd had of that had been shattered by Treyvan's Mindcall.

  There was a massing of Misborn beasts, Falconsbane's creatures, in pursuit of two humans—and one of those humans was using magic to try and drive them off. Without success, as it happened. The gryphons were going to their aid. It was his territory; so must he.

  He, and they, had arrived on the spot simultaneously, to play rescuer to Outlanders. That had irritated him beyond reason; he was tired, and he saw no reason to save ignorant fools from the consequences of their own folly. He had intended to send them back where they came from, whether they were still in danger or not—until he actually saw who, or rather, what, he had rescued.

  He glanced back over his shoulder at them, trying not to look as if he was doing so. "Unsettled" was the mildest term for the way he felt right now. "Shaken" probably came closer; profoundly shaken.

  Well, it is not every day that a pair of Guardian Spirits and a pre-Mage-War Artifact fold wings on your doorstep....

  And when one added the fact that the person bearing the Artifact—and in the charge of the more potent of the Guardian Spirits—was a completely untutored mage of Adept potential—

  If this is a trial of my abilities—the gods have no sense of proportion.

  He was exhausted, bewildered, and one step short of collapsing. All he could think of was to take these Outlanders to the gryphons' lair, where they had left Nyara. Treyvan agreed; and concurred with his judgment that they did not dare let these two—four—five—wander about with things as unsettled as they were. If Falconsbane got his hands on them, as he was so obviously trying to do, Darkwind was not willing to think about what uses he might make of them.

  With any luck, the Elders were so concerned with Starblade that they would not find out about these "visitors" until they were long gone.

  And meanwhile, perhaps he could find somewhere safe to send them. To the Shin'a'in? No, they had forsworn magic....

  Could these two have stolen that sword from the soil of the Plains? That horrifying thought nearly stopped him in his tracks, until he remembered that the blade did not have the air of disuse about it that something of that nature would—and that it did have the air of something that was alien to the kind of magics that lay buried in the Plains. Woman's magic; that was it. No, this was nothing that had been created by the thoroughly masculine Mage of Silence—and it did not have the look or feel of anything forged by the Shin'a'in. Weapons made for the servants of the Star-Eyed were as sexless as the Kal'enedral; this artifact was as female in its way as—as Nyara.

  He staggered a little as he neared the lair; recovered himself before the Outlanders noticed. Above all, he had to present a strong front to them. There was no telling what kind of unwitting havoc they could cause if they thought he was less than vigilant, ineffectual—he was certain now that they meant no harm, not with Guardian Spirits hanging about them, but they could cause a great deal of trouble if they chose to meddle without knowing what they were about.

  I could wish they were Shin'a'in; then we would have two more useful allies at this moment....

  Hydona was already in the lair when they reached it; Treyvan waited outside. "In there," he said, shortly, wishing he dared shake his head to clear his eyes. "If you have gear, Hydona will tell you the chamber you may use."

  When the young man looked from him to the spirit-horse doubtfully, he added, "The white ones, too. We will find them food if you do not have it." He bowed a little to the mare. "Zhai'helleva, lady. You honor k'Sheyna with your presence."

  The spirit-mare looked flattered and surprised—so did the young man.

  :You do not look well,: Treyvan noted.

  :I do not feel well, but I shall survive,: he replied. He gave Vree a toss to send him to a perch above the lair "doorway" and stood, leaning (he hoped) casually, against the doorpost. The young man entered with his spirit-horse. The young woman's spirit-horse started to follow, and he averted his eyes with discomfort—

  Then he found himself sliding dizzily toward the ground, clinging not-so-casually to the rock as his knees buckled.

  Quickly, the young woman knelt beside him and unsheathed her sword.

  :Peace, brother, she means no harm,: Treyvan said calmly.

  Darkwind wasn't so sure. He tried to get up a hand to fend her off—but instead, she put the hilt of the thing in his hand.

  And he heard a strange, gravelly voice in his mind—

  :She says if I don't Heal you she's going to dro
p me down the nearest well,: the sword told him, annoyance warring with amusement in the overtones of its—her—Mind-voice. :I think she must have been taking lessons in rudeness from her predecessor. And knowing Her Highness, she probably would.:

  He nearly dropped the thing in shock, and only long training—never, never, never drop a blade—kept his numb fingers clutched to the hilt.

  :Huh. Nothing too bad—overwork, under-rest. And—: He Felt the thing probing him and his memory, then suddenly pulling back. :Oh, youngling,: the sword said, dropping all cynicism. :You've had more heartbreak than anyone should ever face in a lifetime, and that much I can't Heal. But I'll do my best for you. Open your shields to me.:

  She sounded so much like one of his teachers, an old, old Adept who had ordered him about as if she had been his mother, that he obeyed without thinking twice. She took instant action; in the next moment a gentle warmth stole over him, making him relax still further. He closed his eyes gratefully and let it in. Healers had worked on him before, but that had been for a major injury, not for general exhaustion.

  First came the warmth and relaxation; then came new energy, new strength. It rose in him like a tide, rather than a flood; a rising tide of warmth and golden-green light that touched him within and without, folding him in great wings of brilliance, sheltering him as he had not been protected since he was a child. But the blade not only filled him with renewed physical energy, she also reopened his long-unused mage-channels, replenishing him with magical power as well.

  He was vaguely offended at first, but then practicality took hold. He had said he was a mage. Any reasons for renouncing powers were gone. There was, in fact, every reason why he should take up magecraft again.

  :Thank you,: he told the blade.

  :Thank the girl,: Need responded. :Oh, I was an Adept, but never with the ability she has. She and her teacher were the first in I don't know how long that fought me and won. And all this power—it's coming through her. So save your thanks for her. I'll be done soon.: