Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "At least you know who yours is," Skif replied, with a bitterness that took him by surprise. "I don't. If I have any sibs, I don't know that, either. Mother never got around to telling me anything; she was too busy teaching me to pick pockets. Then someone decided to get rid of her—a rival thief—and I was on my own."

  He snapped his mouth shut, appalled at the way he had simply blurted that out to a near-stranger; things he hadn't told anyone except his dear friend Talia.

  "You were a thief? In a city?" Wintermoon seemed more intrigued than anything else. "I should like to hear of this one day. I have never seen a city."

  "You haven't missed much," he replied. "Cities aren't all that impressive. And I'd give a lot to have a brother."

  Once again, the Tayledras dropped his eyes. All of Wintermoon's apparent attention was again on his half of dinner. "At least I do have Darkwind, that is true. I am actually glad that I am so much older than he; if I had been younger, I would have hated him for stealing Starblade's love and care. But I was old enough to know that what occurred was no one's fault, that without magic, I would never represent anything but failure to Starblade, and that Darkwind was no more to be blamed for that than the magic itself, which declined to manifest in me. Still, I stay away a great deal. It is very easy to find myself envying him, and envy oft turns darker."

  He sighed, as Skif nodded. He stared into the fire for a moment and continued. "I think I will never have other than mixed feelings for Darkwind. I do love him. When he was very young, it was easy to love him, for his disposition was sunny, and his mother treated us both as if we were sons of her body. Even as he came into his power, he was not prideful—he rather delighted in the learning, in finding what could be done—in showing it to me, like any young man with a new accomplishment. Magic was like a huge and complex puzzle to him. But at the same time, there was always the envy...."

  "I don't see how you could have gotten away from it," Skif put in quietly, hoping he wasn't going to break Wintermoon's mood by speaking. This was instructive; it gave him an idea of how some of the more complex situations in the Clan had evolved.

  "Ah, but I am also jealous," Wintermoon said with a lightness that did not in the least deceive Skif. "Darkwind has so many things come easily to his hand, from his bondbird to his magic. Things that I must struggle to achieve, and often have not even a hope of having. Women, for instance. If you have gotten the impression that he could have any partner in the Vale that he chose, you are substantially correct. That is not the least because he was—or is—a powerful mage."

  They sat in silence for a while as their dinner cooked, and ate in silence. Finally Wintermoon broke it. "I think, perhaps," he told Skif, slowly, "that I have said too much. You must think badly of me. I do not ordinarily speak of such things even to friends; I cannot think why I did so now."

  "Maybe because we're more alike than either of us guessed," Skif replied. "And, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to talk. There's been something bothering me for a long time, and I can't really talk about it to anyone—at home. They wouldn't understand." He looked straight into Wintermoon's eyes. "I think you might."

  Maybe it was that Wintermoon was so strange—and yet so very like him. Maybe it had something to do with everything the entire Clan had just endured. Maybe it was just time. Skif didn't know, but when Wintermoon nodded, he drew a deep breath and began choosing the simple, painful words to tell the story of his failure.

  "You know we are at war with a country to the east of us, right?"

  Wintermoon nodded.

  "And I told you that I was a thief, once. Well, for a little while, I was working across the Border, because I'm used to doing things that are—outside a Herald's usual skills." He paused for a moment, then continued, keeping his voice as expressionless as he could. "I was supposed to be helping people escape across the Border, and I was working with a series of families that were providing places for escapees to hide as they fled across the country. I lived with one of those families. Hunters, the husband and wife both—he hunted game, she hunted herbs that won't grow in gardens. They had two children, an older boy and a little girl. They were—kind of the family I never had."

  Wintermoon nodded knowingly. "As Darkwind's mother played mother to me."

  "Exactly." His stomach churned, and a cold lump formed in his throat. "I never thought I'd like living out in the middle of nowhere—and I used to tease them about being backwards—but I kind of got to enjoy it. Then we got a message saying there was someone waiting at the next house in, waiting for me to guide him to the place on the Border. I went and fetched him—and damn if he wasn't just like me. Same background, used to be a thief before he joined Ancar's army, all that."

  I trusted him. I should have known better, I should have, but I liked him, I trusted him....

  "He had to stay a couple of days before it was safe to make the crossing. We talked a lot."

  He acted and reacted just like me, teased the kids, helped with the chores—but I should have known, I should have—

  "Anyway, it was finally clear, and he went off. I thought he made the crossing. I left him, though, because I had to check back with the people he'd stayed with before, bring them some news and money. That was when I found out—"

  "That they were no longer there," Wintermoon interrupted. "That the plausible fellow you had trusted was a traitor."

  "How did you know?" Skif's jaw dropped, and Wintermoon grimaced.

  "Because I am older than you, by more than you know," the Hawkbrother said, gently. "I have seen a great deal. Remember who was the unwitting traitor in our midst. To be effective, one who would betray others must be likable and plausible—while all the time actually being something else entirely. He must be a supreme actor, projecting warmth and humanity, while having a cold, uncaring heart. Someone who was a criminal is likely to be all of these." He looked up at Skif, thoughtfully. "I do not think he was likely to have been a thief, though he may well have associated enough with them to have collected the tales he traded with you. He is likelier to have been something darker. I would say, one who kills in cold blood for pay."

  Skif blinked, and tried to collect his thoughts. All he could think of to say, was, "How old are you?"

  Wintermoon did not seem surprised at the non-sequitur. "You are Darkwind's age, I would guess. I am sixteen summers his senior." He half-smiled, wryly. "It is difficult to determine the age of a Tayledras, even if you are of the Clans yourself."

  "Oh." Skif gathered his scattered and perambulatory wits, and continued his story, but this was the most difficult part to face.

  "I—I went back, as fast as I could—but—" He swallowed the knot of grief in his throat. He didn't close his eyes; if he had, he'd see them, hanging from the crossbeam of their own barn. See what had been done to them by Ancar's toadies before they were hanged. He still saw them, at night. "The only one left was the little girl; the family had managed to get her out before the troops caught them, and she was hiding in the woods." Thank the gods, she never saw any of it, never knew what had been done to them. "I got her across the Border; left her with friends. Then—then I went back. Against orders. The bastard shouldn't have told so many stories; he gave me more clues than he knew, and I know cities. I tracked him down."

  And I did to him what had been done to them before I killed him.

  Wintermoon nodded, and waited.

  Skif hesitated, then continued. "Nobody ever said or did anything, even though they must have known what I did. And I'd do it again, I swear I would—"

  "But part of you is sickened," Wintermoon said softly. "Because what you did may have been just, in the way of rough justice, it may have been—excessive." He stared up at the sky for a moment. "It is better to kill cleanly," he said, finally. "If you did not, you are at fault. A creature like the one you described is not sane, any more than Mornelithe Falconsbane is—was—sane. But you do not torment something that is so crazed it cannot be saved; you kill it, so that its madness
does not infect you."

  Skif was astonished. "After all he did to your people—if you had Falconsbane in front of you now—"

  "I would kill him cleanly, with a single stroke," Wintermoon said firmly. "I learned this lesson when I was a little older than you, now—when I visited similar retribution on a very stupid bandit that had been tormenting hertasi and killing them for their hides. It does no good to visit torments upon a creature of that nature. It teaches him nothing, and makes your nature closer to his. And that is why you are troubled, Wingbrother. You knew this all along, did you not?"

  Skif hung his head, and closed his eyes. "Yes," he admitted, finally. "I did."

  Wintermoon sat in silence a moment longer. "For what it is worth," he said finally, "What was done, was done in the heat of anger, and in the heat of anger, one loses perspective—and sanity. Now you are sane—and sickened. Do not forget the lesson, Wingbrother—but do not let it eat at you like a disease. Let it go, and learn from it."

  Skif felt muscles relaxing that he hadn't known were tensed, and a feeling of profound relief. There. It was out in the open; Wintermoon had guessed most of it without Skif having to go into detail. And the result: he had just discovered he wasn't alone in depravity after all.

  "I visited similar retribution upon a stupid bandit, who had been tormenting hertasi and killing them for their hides."

  He would never have guessed from Wintermoon's serene exterior.

  "Others will forgive you this, Wingbrother," the Tayledras said softly, "but only you can forgive yourself. You must never, never forget."

  "I won't," Skif promised, as much to himself as to Wintermoon. "I won't..." He shook his head, in part, to clear it. "I—after that, though—I got myself assigned back at the capital. I just lost my taste for adventure."

  Wintermoon chuckled. "In that case, Wingbrother, why are you here?"

  "I also couldn't resist Elspeth. It's strange how, even if you know inside that there isn't a chance, you'll pursue something anyway because the thought of it is so attractive. I've known it for a long time, but I wouldn't admit it to myself. Elspeth has her own plan for her life, and my role in it is not as her lover. Still, there it is. The only way they were going to let her make this journey was if I came along." He smiled, and shrugged. "But, when this is all over, if I'm given a choice, I'd like to have a place like that family had. For me... or maybe for their memory." Skif pursed his lips, then looked back up at Wintermoon. "Oh, I'd probably be awful at country living—I'd probably have everyone in the county laughing at me, but it would be good trying. I know I'd like to have a home. A family." He smiled, a little wistfully. "Nobody at Haven would believe that of me."

  "You have seen enough blood, enough death," Wintermoon surmised. "You fought in battles, as a soldier?"

  "Yes." Once again he was amazed at Wintermoon's insight. Or was it something more? "Are you talking with Cymry?"

  The other man nodded, and poked at the fire.

  :I told him only a few things.: Cymry didn't sound at all apologetic. :When you started talking to him and it looked like you were going to talk about That—I prompted him a little.:

  :Why?: He wasn't angry, not really; Cymry was in and out of his thoughts so much she was part and parcel of him. She was his best and dearest friend; he loved her so deeply that he would sooner cut off his arm than lose her. And if he knew nothing else, he knew that she would never, ever do anything to harm him in any way. She had been a part of the revenge scheme, although she had not known his plan until he'd ambushed the bastard and begun. And even then, she kept silent after her initial protests. He didn't think she'd even betrayed his secret shame to other Companions. So why reveal it now?

  :Because I thought it sounded and felt like you were ready to speak, and he was ready to hear,: she replied, matter-of-factly. :And as much as being ready to speak, you were ready to listen. Was I wrong?:

  He shook his head. :No. No, you were right. Thank you, love.:

  Wintermoon sat quietly through the silent exchange, and watched Skif and Cymry alternately. When the Companion nodded, he sighed, and smiled thinly. "I hope you are not angered with us," he said, in half apology. "You see, I had a similar discussion after my ill-conceived vengeance, with Iceshadow. He is not a Mind-Healer, but he is closer to being one than he thinks. He has the insights, at least."

  The Hawkbrother fixed him with a penetrating stare. "I will tell you this, out of my own experience. Although you feel relief now, this is likely to be the source of many sleepless nights for you. You will lie awake, look upon your heart, and find it unlovely. You will be certain that, regardless of what I have said, you are the greatest of monsters. This is a good thing; although you may forgive yourself, you must never come to think that your actions were in any way justifiable. But—" He chuckled, ironically. "As Iceshadow told me, being a sane, honorable human is not always comfortable."

  :He should go set up shop on a mountaintop somewhere,: Cymry said. :He'd make a prime Wise Old Teacher. He's already got the part about tormenting the students down perfectly.:

  Wintermoon drew himself up and stared at her in mock affrontery. "I heard that," he protested.

  :I meant you to.:

  Skif grinned, and the grin turned into a yawn. Wintermoon caught it, and pointed an admonishing finger at him.

  "We still have work ahead of us, and that work requires rest. As you both know." He spread out his bedroll by way of making an example, and climbed into it. "Stars light your path, Wingsibs," he said pointedly, and made a show of turning on his side and closing his eyes. "Wyrsa have no respect for crisis of conscience."

  Well, that about sums the evening up, he thought as he rolled out his own bedroll and crawled into its warmth. And then he thought nothing more, for sleep crept up and ambushed him.

  Chapter Six

  Nyara slicked back her sweat-soaked hair, hardly feeling the cold as the chill breeze dried her scalp. She licked salt from her lips and crouched in the shelter of the bushes for a moment, surveying the open expanse of cracked and crazed pavement that kept the forest from encroaching on the foot of her tower. Though the stones were fragmented, even melted in places, they must have been incredibly thick, for nothing but grass grew in the cracks. It looked similar in construction to the ruins around the gryphons' home, though the tower's age and makers were unknown to her.

  There was no sign of anything waiting for her, but she had learned to leave subtle telltales, things easily disturbed by interlopers. The "random" lines of gravel, for instance; not so random, and placed so that one or more of them would be scuffed by anyone crossing the paving. The faint threads of shields that would vanish if breached—or, just as importantly, if even touched by a mage's probing. With her feeble command of magic, she could scarcely hope to build a shield that would hide her presence from a greater mage, so she didn't even try. Instead, she concentrated on things that would let her know if she had been discovered, so that she had the time to run and hide somewhere else.

  But once again, her refuge seemed secure; the threads were still in place, the pavement clear. Nevertheless, she stayed in the shelter of the evergreen bushes, and sent a careful probe up into the heart of her shelter.

  :Well?: That was all she Mindsent. Anything more could reveal her location to lurkers. There were creatures—some of them her father's—that were nothing more than compasses for the thoughts of those who could Mindspeak. Normally only the one Spoken to could Hear, but these creatures could Hear everything, and could follow the thoughts of a Mindspeaker from leagues away.

  :All's clear,: came the gravelly reply. :Come on up, kitten. I trust you had good hunting. :

  Now she relaxed; nothing got past her teacher. :Quite good,: she replied shortly. :No visitors?:

  :None,: came the answer. :Unless you count our daily cleanup committee.:

  She would have worried if they hadn't shown up. Anything bad enough to frighten off a vulture was a serious threat indeed. :I'm coming up,: she Sent, and only
then arose from her shelter, pushing through the bushes and trotting out into the open—as always, with a thrill of fear at leaving her back exposed to the forest, where someone else could be lurking.

  She padded quickly across the paving, taking care to avoid her own traps. The less she had to redo in the morning, the sooner she would be able to get out to hunt. The sooner she got out to hunt, the more practice she would have. She was under no illusions about her hunting successes; the colder the weather grew, the scarcer the game would become, and the harder it would be for her to catch it. She had never truly hunted for her meals before this, and was no expert. She was lucky; lucky that game was so abundant here, and lucky that she was getting practice now, while it was abundant, and a miss was not nearly so serious as it would be later in the winter.

  The wall of her tower loomed up before her, the mellowed gray of weathered granite. The tower had that look about it of something intended to defend against all comers. She took the neck of the pheasant she had caught in her teeth, and set her finger- and toe-claws into the stone, and began climbing. The scent of the fresh-killed bird just under her nose made her mouth water. Just as well there had been no blood, or she would have been in a frenzy of hunger.

  As she climbed, it occurred to her that it was not going to be pleasant, if indeed possible, to make the climb in winter. Ice, snow, or sleet would make the rock slippery; cold would numb her hands and feet. The prospect daunted her.

  Well, no point in worrying about it now; truly dismal weather was still a few weeks off, and anyway, there was nothing she could do about it at the moment. Not while she was clinging to sheer stone, three stories above the pavement, with another to go.

  Perhaps a ladder, like the Tayledras outside the Vale use for their treehouses. True, she did not have a bird to let the ladder down for her, or to hide the line that pulled it up, but she had magic. Not much, but she was learning to use every bit of what she had, and use it cleverly. A bit of magic could take the end of such a ladder up, and drop it down again when she returned.