Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  He had been staring at the scrying stone; no longer relaxed, and no longer so infernally pleased with himself. She had finally decided that the scrying stone wouldn't work anywhere except this room; certainly he never took it with him, and there was nothing else here but her perch, his couch, the cabinets he kept his toys of pain and pleasure in, and the stone. For the past two days he had spent more and more time here; watching the stone, and getting very intent about something. She overheard him muttering to himself; evidently he had also forgotten how sharp a raptor's hearing was.

  There was something about "heralds," though what that would have to do with anything, she had no notion. There was more about "Valdemar" and a "queen;" "Hardorn," and "Ancar." He seemed very preoccupied with two quite different sets of people. One set seemed to be traveling, and they had something he wanted.

  "Wanted?" That was like saying that she "wanted" her freedom. He lusted over this object, whatever it was, with an intensity she had never seen him display before.

  The other people were connected with this "Ancar," who seemed to be the enemy of the first group of people. From the pacing and muttering that went on after he had watched this person, she gathered that he was toying with the notion of contracting with this "Ancar" and proposing an alliance.

  That was something new for him, or so she gathered. He wanted to—and yet he did not want to chance losing the slightest bit of his own power.

  Then, this afternoon, something had changed. The people he had been watching escaped what he had thought was a perfect trap. And they had taken the thing that he wanted with them.

  Falconsbane flew into a rage and flung the stone against the opposite wall with such force that he splintered the rock of the wall and reduced the stone to fragments, and she shrank back onto her perch, doing her best not to attract him to her by moving or making a sound. He paid no attention to her whatsoever; he roared for one of his servants to come and clean up the mess, and stood over the trembling boy, looking murderously at him as the terrified child carefully gathered the sharp shards in his shaking, bare hands.

  Dawnfire trembled herself, expecting at any moment that he would take out his temper on the boy as he had on the stone. There would be true murder then—

  With a sick feeling, she watched him reach down, slowly, clawed hands spread wide—

  But before he touched the boy, the door flew open, and two men in some kind of ornate uniform flung themselves into the room to abase themselves at his feet, babbling of "failure" and "mercy." Falconsbane started, then grabbed the child to cover his surprise. He pulled the boy up to his feet by his hair, and threw him bodily toward the door, showering the shards around him. This time the boy did not try to pick them up; he simply made good the chance to flee. The guards blanched and immediately went back to groveling with more heartfelt sincerity than before.

  He listened to them a while, then cut them short with a single gesture. "Enough!" he growled, the fingers of his right hand crooked into claws, with the talons fully extended.

  The two men fell absolutely silent.

  "You failed to capture the artifact," he said, his voice rumbling dangerously. "You failed to corner the quarry, you failed to keep them from finding aid, and you failed to acquire the artifact when you had the opportunity. I should take your lives; I should—remake you."

  The men whitened to the color of fresh snow.

  "There is nothing you can say that will redeem your complete stupidity," Falconsbane continued. "You will report to Drakan for your punishment. I have not the time to waste upon you."

  The two men started to get up; a single snarl from Falconsbane sent them back to their faces.

  "I do have time to retrieve from your worthless bodies a modicum of the power you wasted in this effort." He stretched out his right hand and spread it over the two prone men.

  Dawnfire was not certain what exactly he did—but she saw the result clearly. The two men sat back on their heels suddenly, jerked erect like a pair of puppets. Their white faces were frozen in masks of pain, and their limbs trembled and jerked uncontrollably. Their mouths were open, but they uttered not so much as a single sound.

  What was truly horrible about the entire tableau was the expression on Falconsbane's face.

  He looked like a creature in the throes of sexual ecstasy. He had tossed his long, flowing hair back over his shoulders, and he stared off into nothingness with his eyes half-closed in pure pleasure. His fingers flexed; every time they did, the two men's bodies jerked, and their faces took on new lines of agony. Falconsbane's eyes closed completely, and he lifted his face to the light in obscene bliss.

  Finally, he knotted his hand into a fist; the men shuddered, then collapsed.

  He opened his eyes, slowly, and gazed down on his victims with a slow, sated smile. "You may go," he purred. "Now."

  Limbs stirred feebly; heads raised, and the two men began to move. Too weak to do anything else, they crawled toward the door, slowly and painfully.

  And that wasn't even their "punishment." That was just Falconsbane's way of reminding them that he was their master in all things.

  The first man reached the door and crawled out. All of Dawnfire's feathers slicked down flat to her body in fright. She couldn't have moved now if she had wanted to.

  "Greden," Falconsbane said, as the second man started out the door.

  The guard stopped, frozen; in a macabre way, he looked funny, like someone caught pretending to be a dog.

  "Greden, send Daelon to me on your way out." Falconsbane turned, ignoring the man's whispered acknowledgment, and began pacing beside his couch.

  In a few moments, another man entered; an older man, lean and fit, with elaborate, flowing garments and dark gray hair and beard. "My lord?" he said, waiting prudently out of reach. Falconsbane ignored him for a moment, his face creased with a frown of concentration. The man waited patiently; patience was a necessity with Mornelithe Falconsbane, it seemed. Patience, and extreme care.

  Finally Falconsbane stopped pacing and flung himself down on the couch. "Daelon, I am going to propose an alliance, to King Ancar of Hardorn."

  "Very good, my lord," Daelon responded, bowing deeply. "Alliances are always preferable to conflict."

  Falconsbane smiled, as if he found the man's opinions amusing. "I've been in contact with him for some time, as you know; with him, and some other rulers of the East. He agreed to meet with me in person, but he would not set a time." Falconsbane's smile faded. "When he would not specify a date, I insisted that he must come here, and that it was to be within three months of the initial agreement."

  "I assume that he has set a date, my lord?" Daelon asked smoothly.

  "Finally." Falconsbane scowled. "He told me just before that disaster Greden was in charge of that he will be arriving in three days' time."

  "Very good, my lord. By Gate, my lord?" Daelon asked, with one eyebrow raised.

  Falconsbane snorted with contempt. "No. The fool calls himself a mage, yet he cannot even master a Gate. That, it seems, was the reason he would not set a date. He had to travel overland, if you will, and he did not wish anyone to know that he was en route."

  Daelon produced a superior, smug smile. "Then you wish me to ready the guest quarters, my lord?"

  "Exactly," Falconsbane nodded. "I expect I will be able to persuade him to accept my hospitality after several weeks of primitive inns and the like."

  Daelon raised one eyebrow. "Do I take it he will not be coming directly here?"

  Once again, Falconsbane snorted. "He prefers, he says, to remain in 'neutral' lands. I directed him to the valley I flooded with death-smoke a while ago. It is secure enough, the horned vermin will not be using it again soon, and if he proves unreliable, well—" the Adept shrugged, rippling his hair and mane. "I flooded it once and can do so again."

  "Very good, my lord," Daelon bowed, and smiled. "Better to eliminate a menace than deal with a conflict."

  Falconsbane chuckled; the deep, rumbling laugh tha
t Dawnfire knew only too well. She crouched a little smaller on her perch. "Ah, Daelon, your philosophy is so—unique."

  Daelon bowed again, smiled, but said nothing. Falconsbane waved negligently at him. "Go," he said. Then as Daelon started for the door, he changed his mind. "Wait," he called, and scooped something up from beside his couch. As Daelon turned, he tossed something at him; and as the servant caught it, Dawnfire saw it was the falconer's glove.

  "Take that bird with you," he yawned. "I am fatigued, and she no longer amuses me. Take her to the mews; it is time for her to learn her place in life."

  "Very good, my lord," Daelon repeated. When the servant approached Dawnfire, she tensed, expecting trouble, but evidently he was so unfamiliar with falconry that he did not even attempt to hood her. He merely took the ends of her jesses, clumsily, in his free hand, and stuck his gloved hand in her general direction.

  If he didn't know enough about falconry to hold her jesses properly, he might not know enough to hold them tightly.

  She hopped onto his hand as obediently as a tamed cage-bird, and remained quiet and well-behaved. And as he carried her out of the room, and away from Falcons-bane's sight, she saw with elation that he was barely holding the tips of her jesses. Of course, she had fouled them; she couldn't have helped that. He evidently found that very distasteful, and he was avoiding as much contact with the chalked leather as possible.

  And he was holding the arm she rested on stiffly, far away from his body, lest (she supposed) she also drop on his fine robes. And if that particular function had been within her control, she would have considered doing just that.

  He could not find a servant anywhere as they passed through silent stone corridors on the way to the outside door; that elated her even further, even as it visibly annoyed him. He was going to have to take her outside himself....

  He dropped the jesses, leaving them loose, as he wrestled with the massive brass-bound, wooden door, trusting in her apparent docility. She rewarded that trust as he got the door open; a real hawk would have bolted the moment a scrap of sky showed, but she was not sure enough of her flying ability to try for an escape. The man was so fussy she was hoping he would take the time to make sure the door was closed before reaching for her jesses again.

  Please, Lady of Stars, please don't let him see a servant out here....

  He looked about him, squinting in the light, as he emerged from behind the bulky door into the flagstoned courtyard, frowning when he found the courtyard as empty as the corridors. He held her with his arm completely extended, away from his body, as he started to shove the door closed.

  YES!

  She crouched and launched herself into the air, wings beating with all her might, just as she had practiced. With a cry of despair, Daelon made a grab for her dangling jesses—

  But it was too late. She flung herself into the freedom of the blue sky, putting every bit of her strength into each wingbeat, exaltation giving her an extra burst of power, as Daelon dwindled beneath her, waving in wild despair.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Skif sat very quietly in his corner of the gryphons' lair and made up his bedroll with meticulous care. Elspeth had complained a few days ago that she felt as if she were being written into a tale of some kind. Now he knew how she felt. Strange enough to see gryphons this close—but to be rescued by them, hear them talk—

  No one at home is ever going to believe this.

  The fighting had been real enough, and he'd seen plenty of misshapen things in the ranks of Ancar's forces. Too many to be surprised by the creatures that had been sent against them. But talking gryphons, Hawkbrothers—

  No, they're going to think we made this up.

  He tried not to show his fear of the gryphons, but one of his friends was an enthusiastic falconer, and he knew what a beak that size, and talons that long, could do.

  The bigger of the two gryphons was already inside the roofed-over ruin when he entered it. The place was ten times larger than his room at Haven, but it seemed terribly crowded with the gryphon in it.

  "Excuse me, my lady," he'd said humbly, hoping his voice wouldn't break, "but where would you like me?"

  "Hydona," said the gryphon.

  He coughed, to cover his nervousness. "Excuse me?"

  "My name isss Hydona, youngling," the gryphon said, and there was real amusement in its voice. "It means 'kindnessss.' You may put yourrr thingsss in that chamberrr. The Changechild will ssshow you."

  That was when he noticed a girl in the next chamber over, peering around the edge of the opening; obediently he had hauled his saddlebags and bedroll across the threshold, wondering what on earth a "Changechild" was.

  Then the girl moved out of his way, and fully into the light from the outer door, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  She didn't have fur, and she didn't walk on four legs—but she had sharply feline features, slit-pupiled eyes, and the same boneless, liquid grace of any pampered house-cat he'd ever seen.

  He managed to stammer out a question about where he was to put his things. She answered by helping him; and that was when he noticed that once the initial shock of her strangeness wore off, she was very attractive. Quite pretty, really.

  He smoothed his bedroll and watched her out of the corner of his eye as she brought armfuls of nest-material to put between it and the hard rock. She was more than pretty, she was beautiful, especially when she smiled.

  "Thank you," he said, just to see her smile again. Which she did, a smile that reached and warmed those big golden eyes. There hadn't been a lot of smiles out of Elspeth lately... it was nice to see one.

  "Let me aid you," she said softly, and knelt beside him to help him arrange a more comfortable bed without waiting to hear his answer.

  There hasn't been a lot of help out of Elspeth either, lately, he thought sourly. In fact, this girl was Elspeth's utter opposite in a lot of ways. Quiet, soft-spoken, where Elspeth was more inclined to snap at the most innocent of questions.

  "What's your name?" he asked her, as they took the opposite ends of the bedroll, and laid it over the bedding prepared for it.

  "Nyara," she said and looked shyly away.

  That was when Elspeth came in and put her own gear away, efficiently and without a fuss, but it broke the tentative conversation between himself and Nyara, and the girl retreated to her corner.

  She's so—mechanical. She's like a well-oiled, perfectly-running clockwork mechanism. She's just not human anymore.

  In fact, for all of her exotic strangeness, Nyara seemed more human than Elspeth did.

  He stripped off his tunic and changed his filthy, sweat-sodden shirt for a new one, with sidelong glances at Elspeth.

  She changed torn shirt and breeches, both cut and stained with blood, although there was no sign of a wound on her. She took no more notice of him and Nyara than if they had been stones.

  No heart, no feelings, no emotion. No patience with anyone who isn't perfect. As cold as... Nyara is warm.

  A sound at the door made him start, as he laced the cuffs of his shirt. The man who had rescued them—Darkwind—stood shadowing the door. Skif had not heard him until he had deliberately made that sound. He spoke with gryphons, moved like a thought, hid in the shadows—he was far more alien than Nyara, and colder than Elspeth.

  He looked slowly and deliberately into Skif's eyes, then Elspeth's, then Nyara's. "Come," he said, "it is time to talk."

  "Why does it seem as if a whole week has passed since this morning, and a year since we first entered the Plains?" Elspeth asked, her dark brown eyes fixed on the horizon as the last rays of the sun turned the western clouds to gold and red streaks against an incredibly blue sky. The young man called "Skif" was contemplating Nyara, as he had been since she had been awakened.

  Darkwind was watching Elspeth and her friend—though mostly Elspeth—rather than the sunset. She had washed and changed into another of those blindingly white uniforms, and he found himself wondering, idly, how she wo
uld look in one of the elaborate robes Tayledras Adepts favored. In better days, he'd had time to design clothing for his friends; Tayledras art had to be portable because they moved so often, and clothing was as much art as it was covering. His designs had been very popular back then; not as popular as Ravenwing's feather masks, but she had been practicing her art for longer than he'd been alive.

  In fact, he had been proud, terribly proud, that his father had worn some of his designs. One of the things that had hurt him had been finding those outfits discarded soon after he had joined the scouts, in the pile of material available to be remade into scout-camouflage. Now he knew why his father had done that; discarded the clothing where he would be certain to find it. He'd meant to drive Darkwind farther away, to save him. The knowledge turned what had been a bitter memory into something more palatable.

  As he contemplated Elspeth, he imagined what he would design for her. Something hugging the body to the hips, perhaps, showing that magnificently muscled torso, then with a flaring skirt, slit to properly display those long, athletic legs—definitely in a brilliant emerald green. Or maybe something that would enable her to move and fight with complete freedom; tight wine-red leather trews laced up the side, an intricately cut black tunic, a soft red silk shirt with an embroidered collar and sleeves....

  What in hell am I doing? How can I be thinking of clothing right now?

  Maybe it was that she cried out for proper display. White was not her color. The stark uniform only made her look severe, like a purposeful, unornamented blade. After talking with her at length, there was no doubt in his mind that she was a completely competent fighter—that this was an important part of her life. But there was more to her than that; much more. Her outer self should mirror her complicated inner self.