It was not a situation calculated to make him cooperate with his captor and “rescuer.” Not that anything would be, really. Falconsbane was not used to cooperating. Falconsbane was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Anything less was infuriating.
In his weakened and currently rather confused state, he often lost track of things. At the moment, he was fairly lucid, but he knew that this condition was only temporary. At any moment, he could slip back into dreams and semiconsciousness.
So while he was in brief control of himself, he laid his own set of coercions on his mind, coercions that would negate the effect of any drugs or momentary weaknesses. He would not answer anything except the most direct of questions, and he would answer those as literally and shortly as possible. If asked if he knew who he was, for instance, he would answer “Yes,” and nothing more. If asked if he knew what spell had brought him here, he would also answer “Yes,” with no elaboration. If Ancar wanted information, he would have to extract it, bit by painful bit. And Falconsbane would do his best to confuse the issue, by deliberate misunderstandings.
It would be an exercise in patience, to say the least, to learn anything at all of value.
Let Ancar wear himself out. Meanwhile, Falconsbane would be studying him, his spells, and his situation. Let Ancar continue to believe that he was the Master here. Falconsbane would learn to use Ancar even as Ancar thought he was using Falconsbane. He would not remain this fool’s captive for long.
Falconsbane had forgotten more about coercion than this piddling puppy King had learned in his lifetime! It would only take time to undo what had been done, or to work his way around what Ancar had hedged him in with. Falconsbane knew above all that any spell created could be broken, circumvented, or twisted.
Even his own, he remembered with some bitterness.
True unconsciousness rose to take him under a blanket of darkness, even as that last sordid thought cut through his mind.
As Falconsbane drifted from pretended slumber into real sleep, An’desha shena Jor’ethan watched from his own starry corner of the Adept’s mind.
When Falconsbane’s thoughts clouded and drifted into dreams, An’desha opened his shared eyes cautiously, alert to the possibility that such an action might wake Falconsbane again.
But Falconsbane remained asleep, and An’desha reveled in the feeling that his body was his own again—however temporarily that might be. Once Falconsbane woke, he would have to retreat back into the little hidden corner of his mind that Falconsbane did not control, and did not even seem to be aware of. Even his ability to view the world through Falconsbane’s senses was limited to the times when the Adept was very preoccupied, or seriously distracted. Any time there was even the slightest possibility that Falconsbane could sense An’desha’s presence, An’desha kept himself hidden in the “dark.”
He was not certain why he was still “here.” The little he had read in Falconsbane’s memories indicated that whenever the Adept took over one of his descendants’ bodies, he utterly destroyed the personality, and possibly even the soul, of that descendant. Yet—this time both had remained. An’desha was still “alive,” if in a severely limited sense, thanks only to his instincts.
Not that I can do much, he thought with more than a little fear. And if he ever finds out that I’m still here, he’ll squash me like a troublesome insect. He may think he’s too weak to do anything, but even now he could destroy me if he wanted to. He’d probably do it just to sharpen his appetite.
If I’d accepted becoming a shaman . . . none of this would have happened. There wouldn’t even be a Mornelithe Falconsbane, if I hadn’t tried to call fire. If only.
If only . . . easy to say, in retrospect. Half Shin’a’in as he was, would the Plains shaman have even accepted him? There was no telling; the shaman might just as easily have sent him away. Shin’a’in shaman did not practice magic as such—but did they have anything like the fire-calling spell? And if they did, would it have been similar enough to bring Mornelithe out of his limbo? And if it had been—what would have happened then?
If, if, if. Too many “ifs,” and none of them of any use. The past was immutable, the present what it was because of the past. An’desha had been gifted with mage-power. He had chosen to run away to try to find the Tale’edras and master that magic, rather than become a shaman as the custom of Shin’a’in dictated. He had become lost, and he had tried to call fire to warm himself the first night he had been on his own. That had been his undoing.
An’desha was a blood-descendant of an Adept called Zendak, who had in turn been the blood-descendant of another and another, tracing their lineage all the way back to the time of the Mage Wars and an Adept called Ma’ar. That Adept had learned a terrible secret; how to defy death by hiding his disembodied self at the moment of his body’s death in a pocket of one of the Nether Plains. And Ma’ar had set a trap for every blood-descendant of Adept potential, using the simple fire-spell as the trigger of that trap. A fledgling mage shouldn’t know much more than that fire-spell, and so wouldn’t be able to effectively defend against the marauder stealing his body.
An’desha, all unknowing and innocent, had called fire. Mornelithe Falconsbane had swarmed up out of his self-imposed limbo to shred An’desha’s mind.
But this time, the theft had not taken place completely. An’desha had studied what being a Shin’a’in shaman entailed, and was familiar with some of the ways to control one’s own mind. He fled before the Adept’s power into a tiny space in his own mind, and had barricaded and camouflaged against the invader. And Falconsbane was completely unaware of that fact.
Sometimes I wish he had gotten rid of me . . . how can I still be sane? Maybe I’m not . . .
An’desha had been an unwitting and terrified spectator to far too many of Falconsbane’s atrocities—appalled at what was happening, and helpless to do anything about what was being done. And he knew, from stolen glimpses into Falconsbane’s thoughts, that the little he had been witness to was only the smallest part of what Falconsbane had done to his victims. His existence had all the qualities of the worst nightmare that anyone could imagine, and more than once he had been tempted to reveal himself, just to end the torment.
But something had always kept him from betraying himself; some hope, however faint, that one day he might, possibly, be able to get his own body back and drive out the interloper. He never gave up on that hope, not even when Falconsbane had changed that body into something An’desha no longer recognized as his.
He had welcomed the embrace of the Void, at least as an end to the madness. He had no more expected release from the Void than Falconsbane had.
He had not been as weakened or as confused as his usurper when that release came, but caution made him very wary of trusting anyone with his secret. He had remained silent and hidden, and that, perhaps, is what had saved him.
The coercions on Falconsbane had not taken hold of him, and he had come through the ordeal in far better shape than Falconsbane had. And to his surprise and tentative pleasure, he had discovered that the damage done to Falconsbane had permitted him some measure of control again—always provided that he did not try to control something while Falconsbane was using it.
Falconsbane did not seem any more aware of An’desha’s presence than he had been before, not even when An’desha, greatly daring, had taken over the body, making it sit up, eat, and even walk, while Falconsbane was “asleep.”
What all this meant, An’desha did not dare to speculate.
But there had been other signs to make him hope, signs and even oblique messages, during the time that Falconsbane had waged war on the Tale’edras.
The Black Riders. He had known who and what those mysterious entities were, even though Falconsbane had not. When they had appeared, he had nearly been beside himself with excitement. They were as much a message to him—or so he hoped—as they were a distraction to Falconsbane.
And there had even been an earlier sign, at Falconsbane’s b
attle and subsequent escape from the ruins where the gryphons laired. He knew why the Kal’enedral had failed to slay Falconsbane, even if no one else did. They had not missed their mark—nor had concerned with sparing the Adept. Their later actions, in the guise of Black Riders, luring Falconsbane into thinking that he was being “courted” by another Adept, only confirmed that.
They—or rather, She, the Star-Eyed, the Warrior—knew that An’desha was still “alive.” She would; very little was lost to the deity of both the Tale’edras and the Shin’a’in, so long as it occurred either on the Plains or in the Pelagirs. When the Black Riders sem the tiny horse and the ring to Falconsbane, An’desha was certain that they were also sending a message to him. The black horse meant that he had not been forgotten, either oy his Goddess or by Her Swordswom. The ring was to remind him that life is a cycle—and the cycle might bring him a chance to get his body and his life back again.
The question was, now that he was far from the lands that he had known, could they act this far from the Plains? The Goddess was not known for being able to do much far from the borders of Her own lands. She had limited Her own power, of Her own will, at the beginning of time—as all the Powers had chosen to do, to keep the world from becoming a battleground of conflicting deities. She would not break Her own rules.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
She was clever; She could work around the rules without breaking them. If She chose.
If he proved that he was worthy. That was the other thing to keep in mind; She only helped those who had done their part, who had gone to the end of their own abilities, and had no other recourse. If he were to be worthy of Her help, it was up to him to do everything in his power, without waiting for the Star-Eyed to come rescue him.
He would, above all, have to be very. very careful. Just because Falconsbane was damaged now, it did not do to think he would continue to be at a disadvantage. If there was one thing An’desha had learned from watching the Adept, it was this; never underestimate Mornelithe Falconsbane—and always be, not doubly, but triply careful whenever doing anything around him.
But—he dared, just for a moment, to send a whisper of prayer into the darkness of the chamber. To Her.
Remember me—and help me, if You will—
Then the sound of footsteps outside the chamber door made him flee back into his hiding place, before Falconsbane was awakened, or woke on his own.
He reached that safety, just as the door opened, and Falconsbane stirred up out of the depths of sleep.
The sound of his door opening and closing roused him from slumber. Falconsbane opened his eyes a mere slit.
It was enough to betray him to his observer.
“I see you are awake.” The smooth young voice identified the speaker at once, even before Ancar moved into the faint light cast by a shadowed lantern near the bed. “I hope you are enjoying my hospitality.”
Falconsbane refused to allow himself to show any emotion. He simply studied his captor, committing every nuance of expression to memory. Falconsbane knew well the value of every scrap of information, and the more he knew about Ancar of Hardorn, the sooner he would be able to defeat the boy.
He was a handsome young man, showing few signs of the dissipation that Falconsbane suspected. But if he had achieved the position of Master, he surely knew all the tricks by which a mage could delay the onset of aging, strengthen the body, and even make it more comely. Only an Adept could actually change the body, as Falconsbane had done with both his own form and that of others. But a Master could hold his own body in youth for a very long time, if he had sufficient energies. Life-energies would serve the best, the life-energies of others. One could steal years, decades, from other lives and add them to one’s own. Or one could steal the entire remaining life-span. Easily done; very tempting and a very useful skill to learn. For Mornelithe, in days long ago, it had approached being a hobby.
Ancar of Hardorn was certainly a young man that women would find attractive; his straight, black hair was thick and luxuriant, his mustache and beard well-groomed. Neither hid the sensual mouth, a mouth that smiled easily, if falsely. The square face was pleasantly sculptured, the dark eyes neither piggishly small nor bovinely large. But the eyes did give him away, for they were flat, expressionless. and dead. The eyes of someone who sees others only as objects—as things to use, destroy, or ignore. A more experienced man would have learned how even to manipulate the expressions of his eyes, as Falconsbane had. Mornelithe fancied that he could convince anyone of anything, if he chose to. He was certainly convincing this Ancar that his “Master” had him cowed and under control.
Falconsbane considered his answer carefully before making it. How much to reveal? If he seemed too submissive, Ancar might suspect something. A mere touch of defiance, perhaps. A faint hint of rebellion. “I cannot say that ‘enjoy’ is the term I would use.”
Ancar laughed, although there was no humor in the sound. “I see you have regained some of your wits at last. Good. I will ask you some questions that have puzzled me.”
Since that was not a direct question, Falconsbane made no answering comment. Ancar waited for a moment, then said sharply, “What is your true name? And where do you come from?”
The coercions tightened about his mind, forcing answers from him, but he made them as literal as he could. “Mornelithe Falconsbane. I came from the Void, where you found me.”
That last was enough to confuse him. Falconsbane preferred that Ancar not learn his true place of origin. Not yet, at least.
Ancar’s brow furrowed as he considered this. “Are you an Adept?” he asked at last. “Are you a demon?”
“Yes,” Falconsbane replied quickly. “No.”
“But you are not human—” Ancar persisted, but since it was not a question, nothing compelled Falconsbane to answer, and Ancar glared at him in frustration. Falconsbane kept his own expression bland and smooth.
“Do you know who I am?” Ancar asked at last—then, finally realizing what game Falconsbane was playing, changed his question to an order, backed by the coercive spells. “Tell me what you know of me!” he demanded.
Mentally cursing, Falconsbane did as he was told. That Ancar was a ruler and a mage, and that his enemies were the Outlanders who rode white horses as a kind of badge. That the king was the one who had cast the spell that had brought Falconsbane out of the Void, and had cast coercive spells to make Falconsbane his captive. Ancar listened to the little that Falconsbane could tell him, then stroked his beard for a moment in thought.
“I am going to give you some information I wish you to think about,” he said at last, “because I am certain that once you are aware of who and what you are dealing with, you will be disposed to cooperate. I am Ancar, King of Hardorn, and the most powerful mage in this kingdom. I am, as you surmised, the enemy of those you called ‘Outlanders,’ the folk of Valdemar who ride those white witch-horses you described. They are known as ‘Heralds,’ and they possess a certain mastery of mind-magic. I intend to conquer them, and to that end, I require the abilities of an Adept, for their Kingdom has protection against true magic. Not only does it not operate within their border, but mages who attempt to cross that border are driven mad within a short time of trying to exercise their powers. So, you are both useful and necessary to me—but not so necessary that I cannot do without you. Keep that in mind.”
He smiled, and Falconsbane refrained from snarling. The boy’s rhetoric was incredibly heavy-handed. How he had managed to keep himself on his throne, Falconsbane could not imagine. Luck, the help of someone more skilled than he was, or both.
“Now,” Ancar continued silkily, “I have every intention of seeing that you are brought to your full health. If you cooperate fully with me, I shall be certain that you are rewarded. If you do not—I shall force your cooperation, and dispose of you when I no longer need you. The situation is just that simple.”
He did not wait for an answer this time, but simply turned and left, and Falconsbane
felt mage-locks clicking into place behind him.
Slowly, Falconsbane pushed himself into a sitting position, his anger giving him more energy to move than he had thought he possessed. There was food and drink on the table beside the bed; Falconsbane helped himself to both while he still had the strength to do so, and then, when his head began to swim a little., lowered himself back down again.
But although he was prone, his mind continued to work. Ancar had revealed more than he had known, for although he was wearing a mage-constructed shield protecting his thoughts, his expression was perfectly open, and his body had revealed things his words had not.
His hold upon his throne was by no means as secure as he would like Falconsbane to think. There was someone else in the picture—another mage, Falconsbane guessed—who kept the boy in power. That was why Ancar needed Falconsbane. Oh, it was true enough that he also needed an Adept to help defeat these “Heralds” as he had claimed; his body had proclaimed that much also to be true. But his hidden agenda was to rid himself of this other person’s influence, if not, indeed, the person.
Now that had a great deal of potential, so far as Falconsbane was concerned. Perhaps when Ancar had first mounted the throne, his people would only have accepted a ruler of the proper lineage. But by now, Falconsbane suspected that Ancar had been foolish enough to mistreat his people very badly indeed. There was only so much mistreatment that a populace would put up with, and after that, they would welcome any ruler marginally better than the current despot.
Perhaps this other mage had already calculated precisely that. Perhaps not. It would certainly enter into Falconsbane’s calculations.
He would play along with Ancar—perhaps continue to feign weakness, perhaps simply feign complete coopera-tion. He would work at the coercions until they were no longer a hindrance. Then, when the time was right—Falconsbane would turn the tables on the arrogant brat.
Winds of Fury Page 8
