Storm Warning

by Mercedes Lackey

  There was only one problem with that idea. An'desha had spent too much time with Karal. I suppose a sense of responsibility must be contagious, he thought, a bit wryly.

  "Aren't you even listening to me?" Firesong cried desperately. "Don't you care what I'm saying, what I'm going through?"

  "Yes," he replied, reaching out to catch Firesong's hands in his own. "But more importantly, I have listened to everything you didn't say, but meant. You are afraid for me, and you think I am in great danger. You are afraid I will leave you, that I no longer care for you. You are right in the first instance, and completely, absolutely, utterly wrong in the second."

  Firesong's hands tightened on his; Firesong's silvery eyes begged for something he could hold in his heart.

  "I am in danger; all of us are in danger. If we do nothing, your people, mine, and all these friends in this adopted land of ours will suffer, and maybe die." His eyes, he hoped, told Firesong that this was wholly the truth, nothing held back. "If we try to change this plan—" He sighed. "I must tell you that I do not know what difference the changes will make. Altra swears that this is the optimal use of our powers, and that anything less will not guarantee success. With all of my so-called 'experience,' I cannot tell you if he is right or wrong, but I am willing to trust him."

  Firesong nodded, reluctantly.

  "I will not leave you." He said that with such force that Firesong winced. "I am not tired of you, nor bored with you, nor do I find you less than my equal." He allowed a hint of a smile to flick across his lips. "I do find you my superior in more than you know." Now he tightened his hands on Firesong's. "I have never said this in so many words, ashke, and I believe it is time that you heard it."

  And take this with you, to hold in your heart.

  "I love you." He said it softly, simply, and with all the conviction in his body, mind, and soul, and not entirely sure that even this would satisfy him.

  But the truth is often enough in itself. So it was, now.

  They made an odd little group; Altra beside Florian, An'desha in his Tayledras finery beside Karal in his sober black, holding the reins of Trenor. An'desha would have to ride Florian as soon as they got through the Gate; he wouldn't be fit to sit on an ordinary horse afterward. They would need to ride for about two days to get from the place An'desha knew—where he and all the others had crossed into Valdemar from Hardorn, fleeing the destruction of the capital—to the place where all three borders met. All three groups would have to travel about two days to get to their ultimate destinations, once they Gated as far as they could. And for the first day, whichever mage had created the Gate would be altogether useless for much of anything.

  Firesong and Elspeth had gone first, then Darkwind and the gryphons. Now it was An'desha's turn.

  He turned to Karal, as if to say something, then turned back to the stone archway in the weapons-training salle they would all use as their Gate-terminus.

  Karal had heard of Gates, but he had never seen one. And after a few moments of watching An'desha build his, he never wanted to see one again.

  It wasn't that the Gate itself was so terrible to look at; it was actually rather pretty, except for the yawning Void in the archway where the view of Kerowyn's office should have been. No, it was because Karal sensed that the Gate had been spun out of An'desha's own spirit; An'desha was a pale shadow of himself, as this Gate fed upon him, a lovely parasite draining his very essence. It was quite horrible, and Karal wondered how anyone could bear to create something like this.

  Suddenly, the gaping darkness beneath the arch became the view of a forest—a place where the forest had taken over the ruins of a farm.

  "Go!" An'desha said, in a strangled voice. Altra bolted through. Karal set Trenor toward the Gate; Trenor fought the bit. The gelding did not want to go in there!

  Karal started to dismount, then looked back at An'desha and saw the terrible strain holding this Gate was costing him. With a silent apology, he wrenched Trenor's head around and dug his heels into the gelding's sides.

  Although he wasn't wearing spurs, the startled horse acted as if he was; Trenor neighed frantically and bolted through the Gate.

  It felt as if the ground dropped out from underneath them. For no longer than it took to blink, Karal's body swore to him that he was falling; for that long, his senses swore to him that the entire universe had vanished and he was blind, deaf, and frozen. Then they were through, and Karal spun Trenor around on his heels as soon as they had cleared the immediate area. He saw that this side of the Gate was the remains of a ruined stone barn, with only the frame of the door and part of a wall still standing and a view of the salle where only weeds and tumbled stones should have been. A moment later, Florian and An'desha came barreling through, and the scene of the salle vanished behind them.

  An'desha swayed in the saddle; someone had thoughtfully strapped him in so that he wouldn't fall. He clutched the pommel with both hands, leaving the reins slack on Florian's neck; his face was alabaster-white, and his eyes were closed. He opened them slowly as Karal rode Trenor up beside him.

  "I never want to Gate anywhere ever again," Karal said, putting such intensity into every word that An'desha sat up straight in surprise. "I never want to put you through something like that again!"

  "It won't be so bad, next time," An'desha replied weakly. "I promise you. Next time, we will make the journey in several smaller portions, over several days."

  "There won't be a next time, if we don't," Karal replied acidly. He looked down. "Florian, is he fit to ride?"

  :Even if he weren't, I am fit to carry him. That is why he is bound to the saddle,: came the reply. :We have no choice. Time is speeding.:

  "So we had better speed ourselves." He reined Trenor back and gestured. Florian knew the way without a map—he was the best guide they could have had. "If you would lead?"

  He steadied Trenor, and Altra leapt up to the padded platform where a pillion-saddle would have been. Rris had sworn that his "famous cousin Warrl" often used such a contraption to ride behind the Shin'a'in warrior Tarma shena Tale'sedrin, and in the interest of making the best speed possible, Altra had agreed to try it. Trenor didn't seem to mind too much, although he'd tried to buck a little the first time Altra had jumped up there.

  Florian swung off into the deeper woods, and if he was following a trail, it wasn't a trail that Karal could read.

  Then again, I'm not a woodsman, am I?

  There must have been a trail there, though, since Florian pushed through the brush and rank weeds with no real problem. He was making good time, too—not quite a canter, but certainly a fast walk.

  Poor Trenor, Two days of this is going to wear him out.

  But there was no choice; every mark that passed was a mark that brought the next wave nearer—and Natoli had confided to him that there were several small villages lying where interference-points would fall. The ones in Valdemar had been evacuated, of course—but there could be no such guarantees of the villages elsewhere.

  They had to stop this wave. They had to be in place in time.

  When we have done all we can, then it is time to add prayer to the rest. That was one of Master Ulrich's favorite proverbs. Well, they had done all they could; Karal shut his eyes, trusted to Trenor to follow Florian, and sent up fervent prayers.

  Whenever Karal sensed that Trenor was tiring, they stopped for a brief rest, water, and food; other than those stops, they rode right on through the night and on into the next day. This country was all former farmland, now gone to weeds and desolation; Karal didn't really want to ask why it had been left like this. He had an idea that the answer would involve the war with Hardorn, and the little he had learned about Ancar from An'desha did not make him eager to hear more.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry. There isn't much time.

  The countryside was desolate in other ways, too; there didn't seem to be a lot of wildlife. Birds were few, and mostly oddly silent. Although it was late fall and frost soon crusted every dried, dead le
af and twig, there should have been night sounds; owls, the bark of a fox, or the bay of a wolf. The only sounds were the noises they themselves made, and that very silence was more than enough to put up the hair on Karal's neck. An'desha slept in the saddle, as he had since they left the area of the Gate; Altra was not disposed to conversation, and Florian had his mind on finding their way. That left him with nothing to do but half-doze, worry, and try another prayer or two.

  When dawn came, it brought a thin gray light to the gray landscape, and matters did not improve much. Trenor was tiring sooner, now, and it hurt Karal to force him on, but he knew there was no choice. They only had until two marks after dawn tomorrow to get into place.

  But not long after the sun rose, An'desha actually shook himself awake, and looked around.

  "I remember this," he said quietly. "This was land that Ancar held briefly, and he drained it while he held it. It has made a remarkable recovery."

  "This?" Karal replied incredulously. "Recovered?"

  "You did not see it before," the Adept told him grimly, turning in the saddle to face him. "Nothing would grow; nothing. By next year this may be back to the kind of land it once was." His eyes were shadowed by other memories than of this place, and finally he voiced one of them. "Ma'ar made places as desolate as this. The truly terrible thing is that he thought he was doing right in creating them."

  "Because in creating them he served some kind of purpose?" Karal hazarded.

  An'desha nodded. "He served his own people very well; he made them into a great and powerful nation. The only problem is that in doing so, he turned other nations into stretches of desolation that are still scarred by his wars today. For him, nothing mattered except himself and his own people—who were extensions of himself. He did horrible things in the name of patriotism, and thought that he was in the right. I do not like Ma'ar, but I understand him. Perhaps I understand him too well."

  Karal heard the self-doubt creep into An'desha's voice again, and answered it. "Understanding is the essence of not making the same mistakes, An'desha," he replied. "I rather doubt that Ma'ar ever understood himself, for instance."

  An'desha actually laughed. "Well, now that is true enough," he said cheerfully. "So, once again you unseat my problems before they can dig spurs into me. How far to the key-point?"

  :Most of the day, if we are not delayed,: Florian replied—

  —just as they topped a hill to find themselves staring down at a gorge many hundreds of hands below. The gorge held a river—a river so full of Whitewater rapids that it would be insane to try and cross it.

  :This should not be here!: Florian exclaimed.

  They all stared down at the river below, all but Trenor, who took the occasion to snatch a few mouthfuls of dried weeds.

  :And here, right on schedule, is our delay,: Altra said finally.

  "Not necessarily," Karal pointed out quickly. "There may be a bridge. Do we go upstream or down to try and find it?"

  "Upstream, I think," An'desha said, after a moment of consideration. "It takes us nearer the Iftel side that way."

  In the end, they did find a bridge—a narrow, shaky affair of old logs and rough planks. Karal had to blindfold Trenor to get him across, after Altra tried the footing by carefully padding over first. But that put them several marks behind schedule, and it was nearly dawn before they finally reached their goal.

  Karal had wondered just how they would know what side of the border was the Iftel side, and what was the Valdemar side. As the sun rose, he had the answer to that question.

  "What is that?" he asked in awe, staring at the wall of rippling light that lay along the top of the ridge, just above them. He couldn't see the top of it, whatever it was—it wasn't air, unless there was a way to solidify air and make it into a curtain of refraction. It wasn't water, although it moved and rippled like water with a breeze playing over it, and Karal was just able to make out large masses of green and gray-brown on the other side of it that could be trees and bushes.

  :That is the border,: Florian replied warily. :It wasn't always like that. Before the war with Ancar, it looked just like the border between Valdemar and Rethwellan, but once Ancar tried to bring an army across it, that was what sprang up. Anyone who tried to cross it was forced back. Anyone who tried to drive their way in with magic—died. I've heard that there are some very select traders who are allowed to come and go between here and there, but they are a close-mouthed lot, and they won't talk about anything that they've seen over there.:

  "I thought they had an envoy at the Valdemar Court," An'desha observed.

  :They used to, a very long time ago. Not anymore.: Florian let out his breath in a sigh. :It's tradition to keep their suite ready for them, but no one has come to claim it in anyone's lifetime.:

  Karal swallowed as he contemplated that shimmering wall of—of—

  Of power, that's what it is. Pure force. And I'm supposed to walk across it? And anyone who tried to cross it is dead!

  What was more, he was supposed to walk across it right now. There couldn't be more than a mark to go until the next wave was upon them!

  "Come on," he urged as his hands shook. "We have to get moving now. We haven't got any time at all to spare!"

  To set an example, he urged poor, tired Trenor into a clumsy trot, sending him down the valley, through the knee-high grass, and up the ridge. The wall just loomed larger and larger—it didn't change at all except for the continuous rippling of the surface as he drew nearer to it. He sensed An'desha and Florian at his back, but the sheer power of the wall drove them mostly out of his thoughts.

  There wasn't time for finesse, for study, for anything other than what he was already doing—running headlong into the thing, and hoping that it didn't decide to kill him, too.

  Fear held him rigid and made a metallic taste in his mouth. He closed his eyes and shouted at Trenor to drive him the last few spans remaining—

  —opened his eyes again, just as they actually reached it, and passed into it—

  Something seized and held him.

  ****what?****

  He could not move, not even to breathe. He was surrounded by light, yet could not see. He could only wait, while whatever it was that held him examined him, inside and out.

  ****Priest?****

  Was he a Priest? An'desha had named him "priest," but it had been in jest. Or had it? Solaris had named him "priest," but he thought it had merely been expedience. What had he done to earn the name?

  ****ah****

  Suddenly, it let him go. He found himself still in Trenor's saddle, looking at An'desha and Florian through a curtain of rippling light that seemed thinner here than elsewhere.

  :It is thinner. That is so we can reach them,: Altra said, urgently. :It is coming, Karal, take your position. Don't just stand there thinking, move!:

  He tumbled off Trenor's back and took the stance he'd been coached in, bracing himself and holding both his arms out and up.

  :Now. Into the trance I taught you.:

  Obediently, he spoke his keywords and fell into a light trance; not so deep that he was unaware of everything around him, but too deep for him to move on his own now. He wasn't sure what was going to happen after that; Altra and An'desha hadn't gone into it—

  A fraction of a heartbeat later, he realized why they hadn't gone into it. If they had, he'd have been too terrified to go through with it all.

  From Altra's side, a torrent of power poured into him; from Florian's, another. There was something in him that managed to join those two streams of energy and actually hold them—even though from his point of view, it was like the one time he'd foolishly mounted an unbroken stallion. He was not controlling the power—it was permitting him—briefly—to hold it!

  Then An'desha somehow reached out to him from across the border, and the two streams of power that had been made one found their outlet.

  Now An'desha did something with that energy that Karal could not see, and could only sense, very dimly, as a bl
ind man might sense a mighty fortress being built beside him. He arched his back and closed his eyes to concentrate on holding the power steady—the longer the power "permitted" him to hold it, the more control he actually had over it.

  It was not easy, and he sensed something else. If he slipped, it was going to do terrible things to him, and if he survived the experience, the likelihood that he would regret surviving was very high.

  He no sooner had that unsettling revelation than the disruption-wave hit.

  It was worse than all the others combined.

  The ground heaved and buckled under him, as if this was the earthquake that would end the world. He went entirely blind, but not in the sense of being immersed in total darkness. Instead, there was nothing to see but color and light, swirls and whirlwinds and cascades of color and light. The light was something he could hear; it roared and rushed in his ears. The color had flavors; iron, scorched stone, and copper. Somewhere out there he knew that Florian and Altra were still pouring energy into him; he felt it, hot and primal, deep inside him—and An'desha needed that power. So he held to it, even when the light turned into a million serpents that threatened to crush him, even when the colours tried to wash him away, right up until everything collapsed and he was all alone in an unending darkness, and he knew he would never, ever find his way out again—that was when he faltered.

  Fear overcame him; he felt the power slipping through his tenuous grasp.

  I can't take this! he thought, gasping in panic. I can't do this! This was for someone like Ulrich, not me! I can't—

  His control slipped a little more, and he flailed in confusion.

  I don't even know what I am anymore.

  His heart raced in panic, and he wanted Ulrich. He wanted to be like Ulrich.

  Then from deep within him came a feeling of conviction, of responsibility, too strong for even fear to shake.

  I have to. There's no one else.

  He held the power, though it writhed and threatened to escape. He ignored his confusion, fought his panic, and held.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. Abruptly, he found himself back on the Valdemar side of the barrier, knee-deep in dead grasses, staring into An'desha's eyes from a distance of no more than an arm's length. How he had gotten there, he had no clue.