Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "K'Valdemar, hmm?" Firesong repeated, his smile increasing by just a hair. "And a Companion. Thai'helleva, Wingsibs. The tale of your coming here must be a fascinating one indeed."

  "Elspeth is a Herald of Valdemar, if you have heard of such things." Darkwind's voice was carefully neutral. "There is another Herald out on the borders of k'Sheyna who was also made Wingsib, one Skif k'Sheyna k'Valdemar—but it is pressing business that keeps him there, and at any rate, he is no mage."

  "Which you, bright falcon, most certainly are." Firesong's handclasp was warm and firm as he took Elspeth's hand in greeting. "And as it happens I have heard of Heralds before. It is something of a k'Treva legend, the visits of Heralds. But then, k'Treva has always been considered—hmm—unconventional." He glanced aside at Iceshadow, who coughed politely.

  "But here I am keeping you out in the snow and cold, when we could be in the welcoming warmth of the Vale!" he exclaimed, turning swiftly in a graceful swirl of snowy hair, feathers, and clothing. "Come, Clansibs! Let us continue these greetings in comfort."

  Darkwind struggled against annoyance. This Firesong—this young Firesong—displayed a body-language that flaunted his arrogance. And a confidence that implied a competence fully as great as the arrogance.

  Well, the firebird resting on his shoulder said something of his competence. It had been generations since one of the Tayledras had thought to breed up a new species of bondbird—and to do so from firebird stock was doubly amazing. Firebirds were shy, highly territorial, easily startled—none of those being traits that augured well for their potential as bondbirds. Yet here he was, this Firesong, bearing a snow-white firebird that sat his shoulder as calmly as ever a forestgyre sat a scout's.

  Small wonder that his Clan described him as an experimenter.

  He could be older than he looked; it often took an Adept up to sixty years to show any signs of aging. But Darkwind doubted that. The arrogance that Firesong flaunted was that of youth, not age; Darkwind reckoned that he might even be a year or two younger than he was.

  Just as annoying was Elspeth's obvious fascination with the newcomer.

  He is as beautiful as a god, a traitorous whisper said in the back of his mind. How could she not be attracted to him? How could anyone?

  He took small comfort in the fact that Firesong chose an ekele near the opposite end of the Vale from Elspeth's. Right beside Starblade's in fact, a little higher in the same tree. But no sooner had the Adept tossed his white pack carelessly up into the open door, sent his white firebird to a perch, and shed his heavy outer garments, than he turned and looked down at Darkwind with that annoying half-smile on his face.

  "I should like to see your father Starblade, if I may," he said without preamble. "If you will excuse me."

  And with that, he ran lightly down the stairs and tapped upon the doorpost of Starblade's ekele as if he were expected.

  Perhaps he was, for Kethra beckoned him inside, leaving Darkwind outside. She did not beckon him in, although she clearly saw him standing there.

  He felt like a fool, and only felt like less of one because there was no one there to witness his exclusion from what was obviously a private conference.

  He gritted his teeth, and went off to find something marginally useful to do, before he did something decidedly the opposite.

  "Ho, Darkwind!"

  The unfamiliar voice hailing him could only be Firesong's. Darkwind stopped, put a pleasant expression on his face with an effort of will, and turned to face the young Adept.

  Firesong had changed his costume, from the winter whites he had ridden in wearing, to something more appropriate to the warmth of the Vale. A half-robe and trousers of fine silk—and if Darkwind had not seen it, he would not have believed that it was possible to create a costume that was more flamboyant than that of his arrival.

  Firebird gold, white, and flame-blue were the colors, and they matched the blue of his eyes, the silver of his hair, and the gold of his skin to perfection. Someone—hertasi, probably—had taken great pains with his hair. Darkwind felt positively plain beside him.

  "Darkwind," Firesong said, cheerfully, as he strode up beside him. "I have had speech of Starblade and Kethra, of the Elders, and also of the Shin'a'in shaman Tre'valen. What they have told me has confirmed the impression your message gave to me. We can do nothing about the Heartstone for a brace of days; I must study it at close hand."

  Well, at least he has that much sense.

  "I trust I don't need to warn you to be careful about it," Darkwind said.

  Firesong nodded, for once, seeming entirely serious. "There is no doubt in my mind that the Stone is treacherous," he stated. "It has behaved in a way that no such Stone in the history of either of our Clans has ever done before. I shall take no chances with it."

  That much gave Darkwind a feeling of relief. However arrogant this young man was, he was at least no fool.

  "There is something else, however," Firesong continued. "Something I think you have probably anticipated. There are only two among the humans of the Vale who are of a power and an ability to aid me in dealing with this Stone. Yourself, and the Outland Wingsister. But you are not yet tested and confirmed as Adepts."

  Darkwind grimaced, and began walking back toward his ekele, the direction in which he had been going when Firesong hailed him. "That is true. Although we have Adepts among us, there were none who felt strong enough to do so."

  "I have seen that, and I think it was wise of them to work within their strength," Firesong replied, keeping pace with him easily. "But that must end now. I shall complete your training, and Elspeth's, and confirm you, for I shall need you at full ability to aid me." He stared ahead, down the trail, as Darkwind glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "I shall be accomplishing something with your father as well, but it is nothing you need to concern yourself over."

  No, of course not. He's only my father. Why should I worry about what you are going to do with him?

  But Darkwind kept his thoughts and his comments to himself, simply nodding shortly. "When do you want to see us, then? And do you want to work with us singly, or together?"

  "Oh, together," Firesong replied, carelessly, as if it did not matter to him. "Since I shall need you to work as partners, that is best, I think. And, tomorrow. But not too early." He yawned, and smiled slyly. "I am weary. And the hertasi have pledged me a massage. It was a cold and fatiguing journey; I believe I shall go and rest from it."

  And with that, he turned abruptly off on a sidepath, one that would take him back to his own ekele.

  And Starblade's.

  Of course he already has hertasi, Darkwind thought with irritation. They flock to beauty and power, and he has both in astonishing measure. He probably had a half dozen begging to serve him within moments of his arrival. If he walked by the swamp village, they would follow him in hordes, for all that they consider that they are independent. Nera would probably lead them.

  He turned his steps toward Elspeth's dwelling to give her the news of their new tutor.

  And how was she reacting to this arrogant youngster, he wondered. This powerful, breathtaking youngster....

  And he was surprised by the stab of jealousy he felt at the memory of the open admiration he had caught in her eyes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nyara woke to the thunder of great wings above her tower, and the sound of something heavy landing on her roof. She slipped out of bed, hastily snatching up the cloak she had made from the skin of a winter-killed bear.

  Before she had a chance to panic, or even to shake herself out of the confusion of interrupted sleep, Need spoke in her mind. :It's the gryphons. Tell them hello for me,: Need said casually, as she stood, blinking, and trying to shake her dreams off.

  The gryphons? She wrapped the cloak around her narrow shoulders and slipped up the steep stone stairs to the rooftop.

  The gryphons? But—why have they come here?

  "Brrright Grrreeetingsss little one!" Treyvan called, as
she poked her head cautiously over the edge of the stair opening. "How goesss the lessssoning?" He looked as cheerful—and as friendly—as she had ever seen him, his wings shining in the sunlight, his head and crest up. As if she had never betrayed his little ones, his trust. As if she had never fled his lair with a stolen sword. As if nothing had ever happened between them but friendship.

  She tried not to show her surprise, and ventured the rest of the way onto the rooftop. "Well, I think," she said shyly, bobbing a greeting to Hydona, who had landed behind her mate. "Or at least Need says that I do well. She says to tell you hello. How did you find me?"

  "Ssstand, and let me look at you," Hydona demanded, turning her head from one side to the other, like a huge bird surveying something that intrigued it. Nyara obeyed, instantly.

  "Good," Hydona pronounced. "The taint isss gone, and you arrre looking lesss—ferrral. We knew wherrre you werrre becaussse Need told usss, of courssse."

  "Of course," she said faintly.

  "Sssomeone had to know," Treyvan admonished with a flick of his tail. "What if you encounterrred sssomething you could not deal with? What if crrreaturresss of yourrr fatherrr found you? Need judged usss able to defend you, and otherrrwissse likely to leave you in peace."

  "Morrre ssso than the Hawkbrrotherrrsss," Hydona said. "But that isss why we arrre herrre. Becaussse of Ssskif and Winterrrmoon."

  She inadvertently brought her hand to her throat. "Are they near?" She had not thought she would have to deal with Skif so soon....

  "Verry," Treyvan said shortly. "The trrrail isss hot. You will not brrreak passst Winterrrmoon without him ssstriking yourrr esscape trrrail. The owlsss will find thisss place tonight or tomorrrrow night."

  Hydona nipped at her mate. "And we mussst leave, if we arrre not to brring dissscovery on herrr soonerrrr." She hesitated a moment. "Nyarrra, we have all forrrgiven you. You did yourrrr bessst. We wisssh you verrry well. And Ssskif would make a fine mate. But I think you know that alrrready."

  With that, she launched herself from the tower like a sea-eagle, in a dive that ended with a great snap as she opened her wings and turned the dive into a climb. Treyvan only nodded, then turned and did the same.

  Within moments, they were far out of sight. Nyara stared after them—comforted, and yet tormented.

  She descended the stairs to her living quarters slowly, still not certain what to do. Should she wait for him to find her? Should she hide somewhere, so that he found only her empty lair? Should she hide here and pretend that she was not here?

  :Go find him, girl,: Need replied. :You heard Hydona; now you have a second opinion. A little stronger than mine, really—but then Hydona has a mate of her own. She tends to favor matings. :

  "But—" Nyara began.

  :But nothing. Don't let the opinion of someone who never had a man get in your way.: Need actually chuckled. :Look, girl, I never, ever, put my bearers between a boulder and a rock, making them choose between me and a man. Just because I have always chosen to defend women, that doesn't mean I despise men. Demons take it—that would be as blind as the opposite! I am not about to go copy the behavior of some woman-hating man! Now go on out there and deal with your feelings. Meet them, instead of waiting for them to trap you.:

  "I still don't know," Nyara said, feeling as helpless as a kitten in a flood.

  :You don't need to know. Get it over with one way or another. If you don't—girl, don't you know that's something your father will use against you? Make it into a strength, and not a weakness! It worked before. Remember?:

  Yes, she remembered. Remembered attacking her father with tooth and claw, for striking at Skif. Recalled the surprise on his face before he struck her.

  :The beast just does not understand the strength of true feelings, and he never will. It makes you unpredictable to him. Use that.:

  Nyara sighed and moved to her window, looking out over the peaceful countryside that up until this morning had been only hers. Only white. And now seeing the shadows. They had been there all along, but she had chosen not to see them. "I suppose I should be grateful that he has been sulking and licking his wounds for so long, and has not come looking for me."

  :You're waking up, girl. The gryphons were my hedge against Skif or Mornelithe finding you. Well, Skif showed up before the beast did; I suppose we should be grateful for that, too. Skif's a good one, as young men go.:

  "So." She settled her cloak firmly about her shoulders. "If he is hunting with Wintermoon and the owls, he hunts by night."

  :True enough.:

  "He will be sleeping now," she said, thinking out loud.

  "I should be able to approach without Cymry rousing him, and be there when he wakes. Yes, I think that now is the time to go and meet him."

  :Good girl.:

  She turned to face the sword. "So," she said, feeling a kind of ironic amusement after all, "since I am sure that you know—or can find out—where is he?"

  * * *

  Mornelithe Falconsbane reclined on a soft couch in his darkened study, and brooded on revenge, like some half-mad, wounded beast. He had not left the room since his return, sore in body and spirit, depleted, but refusing to show any weakness. Weakness could be fatal to someone in his position. A show of weakness would give underlings... ideas. He had learned that decades ago.

  His own people hardly dared approach him; they ordered slaves to bring him food and drink, silently, leaving it beside the door. The slaves obeyed out of immediate fear of the lash, fear of pain even overcoming their fear of Falconsbane, praying that he would not notice them. For sometimes, the slave in question would find those glowing golden eyes upon him, shining out of the darkness of the study-corner where he lay....

  And when that happened, more slaves were summoned later, to take the remains away. The remains were not pretty. Usually, there were pieces missing. No one looked into the study to find them.

  He had used his own blood to open the great Gate in the ruins; had wrenched that Gate from its set destination to a portal of his choosing. He had done so out of desperation, not knowing if the thing would work, not knowing if he had the strength left to make it work. Not knowing if it would take him where he willed, or somewhere unknown. He chose to risk it anyway, preferring to die fighting rather than be taken by the cursed Horse-Lovers and the Bird-Fools.

  In the end, he stumbled from the mouth of a cave at the very edge of his own realm, fell to the ground, and lay in a stupor for over a day. Only the strength he had cultivated, the stamina he had spelled into himself, had saved him. A lesser being would have died there. A lesser Adept would have been stranded in the nothingness between Gates, trapped, unless and until some accident spewed him forth—perhaps dead, perhaps mad, certainly tortured and drained.

  But he was not a lesser Adept, and it would take more than a day of exposure to kill him.

  He woke, finally, ravenous and in pain from wounds within and without. His mage-channels had been scorched by the unrestricted torrent of energies he had used. The first thing he had needed was food.

  He had caught and killed a tree-hare with his bare hands; eaten it skin and bones and all.

  He had chosen his exit point well; once he had strength to move, he turned his attention to his next need, shelter. That was not a problem, for wherever he had established a possible Gate-anchor, he had always built a shelter nearby. That was a habit so ingrained he never even thought about it, centuries old, but this time it had saved his life.

  He had staggered to the hunting shelter, a small building of two rooms, but well-stocked with food, wood, and healing herbs. He spent over a moon-cycle in recovering from the worst effects of wounds and spells. His own slaves and servants had not known whether he lived or not, until he had limped home. Only their fear of him had kept them at their posts. Only sure knowledge of his retribution when he recovered completely kept them there once he returned.

  Fortunately, obedience was a habit with them. He was at a reasonable fraction of his strength once fear
and habit weakened, and someone thought they might try for freedom.

  Since he had neither the strength nor the time for finesse, he simply killed the offenders.

  Fear of what he was now continued to keep them here.

  He reinforced that fear, periodically, by killing one of the slaves. Reminding them what he had done; what he could do. Reminding them all that their lives rested in his hands.

  It was a diversion, anyway.

  There was an ache inside him that no herb and no rest could touch—a hunger for retribution. That was what drove him to killing the slaves. The deaths themselves did nothing to ease the pent-up rage that smoldered in his soul. There were only three things that would slake his thirst for blood.

  Nyara.

  He flexed his claws into the leather of his couch, and considered what he would do to her once he found her. She would die, of course, but not for a very long time. First he would ease his lust in her, repeatedly. He might share her; it depended on his own strength and how deeply he wished to wound her spirit. Then he would flay her mind with the whip of his power until she was nothing more than a quivering, weeping heap of nothingness—until the person that had dared to defy him was utterly destroyed. Then, only then, would he carefully, delicately, flay the physical skin from her body—leaving her still alive. Then he would see that what was left was placed in a cage and hung over his towers for the carrion crows to pick at. An example for those who considered treachery. His magic would see to it that she lived for a very long time.

  Perhaps he would make a rug of that skin, or wear it.

  K'Sheyna.

  That was the second cause for his anger and hate. Only the destruction of the entire Clan would do. He had held back his power until now, enjoying the challenge, but now he would take them, one by one. First the scouts. Then the mages. Then, last of all, Starblade and his sons, plucking them from the heart of the Vale and bringing them to grovel at his feet before they died. The others he would kill however he could, but those three—those three he would deliver to the same fate as his treacherous daughter. Then, when the Vale was empty of all but the hangers-on, he would suck the power from the Heartstone and blast it back again, turning the Vale into an inferno of melting stone and boiling water.