He had brief hopes again, when he learned of the existence of the mysterious woman rival in Ancar’s life—how could a woman who was Ancar’s rival be anything but Ancar’s very opposite? But then Ancar’s own descriptions destroyed the vision of a woman of integrity opposing the King and his henchmen. Even taking Ancar’s words with a great deal of leaven, this Hulda was no more to be trusted than Ancar himself.
He learned far more than he cared to about her, nevertheless. Once he had admitted Hulda’s existence and their former relationship, Ancar answered all of Falconsbane’s questions with casual callousness, describing their relationship in appalling detail, and the things she had taught him, often by example, with a kind of nostalgia. And the woman was just as much a monster as her pupil—perhaps more, for Ancar had no knowledge of anything she might have done before she came into his father’s employ. Seducing the young child she had been hired to teach and protect was the least of her excesses. . . .
It was a horrible education for An’desha. His uncle had claimed that the so-called “civilized” people of the other lands were the real barbarians, and at the moment An’desha would vouch for that wholeheartedly. No Shin’a’in would ever sink to the depths that Ancar described, and as for Falconsbane—
No Shin’a’in would ever believe anyone would do what the Beast had done.
These people were all scum!
He longed, with an intensity that made him sick, for the clean sweep of the Dhorisha Plains and the simpler life of a herd guard. What matter if his kin were sometimes cruel, sometimes taunted him for being a halfbreed? What matter if he had been forced into the life of a shaman? He would never have had to experience any of this, never know that his body had done these things, had performed those acts. He would never have been forced to look into the depths of Falconsbane’s soul and realize that no matter what he saw now, there was probably something much worse in the Adept’s memory that he simply hadn’t uncovered yet.
The most evil men in recent Shin’a’m history were those men who had slaughtered Clan Tale’sedrin, down to the last and littlest child—except for the famed Tarma shena Tale’sedrin who had declared blood-feud, been taken as Swordsworn, then tracked them down and eliminated them all. But compared to Mornelithe Falconsbane, all of the crimes of all of those men combined were a single poisonous weed in the poisoned lands of the Pelagir Hills, or a grain of sand in the glass-slagged crater that had in the long-distant past, become the Plains at the Hand of the Star-Eyed.
The young Shin’a’in huddled inside Falconsbane’s mind—no, it is my mind—as the conversation with Ancar went on and on, trying to hold in his revulsion and mask his presence, and expecting at any moment to be discovered. And An’desha had never in his entire life felt quite so young, petrified with fear, and quite so helpless. Despite the protections the Avatars had taught him, if Falconsbane found him, he would have no way to prevent the Adept from crushing him out of all existence.
But somehow, those protections held. Either Falconsbane was not as all-powerful as he thought, or else the Avatars were more powerful than they claimed.
Ancar left at last, as Falconsbane’s feigned weariness became real weariness. And when he dozed off in the chair, An’desha crept out of hiding, to stare at a candle flame and try to think out his meager options.
Ancar was repulsive, but an old Shin’a’in proverb held that anything could be used as a weapon in a case of desperation. You can kill a man who wishes to destroy you with a handful of maggots if you must. Could An’desha possibly deceive the King long enough to win himself free? I could reveal myself to Ancar as an ally, and think up some story that makes it look as if I have more power than I really do. Well, yes. That was a possibility. And if everything worked properly, he might get his body back if Ancar could overwhelm Falconsbane. But Ancar had no reason to trust An’desha, and every reason to want one more hold over the Adept. What did An’desha have to offer? The knowledge contained in Falconsbane’s memory, assuming it was still there after Falconsbane was gone—yes, he did have that. But he had no practical experience as a mage; no idea how to handle all these energies. And truth to tell, he was terrified of them. If Ancar asked for proof of his power, what could An’desha offer? Not much. Nothing that would convince Ancar, who was a suspicious man and saw deception everywhere.
Well, what went for Ancar also went for the woman. More so, actually, since Ancar wanted Falconsbane to increase his own power, and the woman would naturally want to eliminate both of them once she discovered the conspiracy against her. He would need to offer nothing more than access to Falconsbane—he could turn the tables on both Ancar and Falconsbane, and reveal himself to this “Hulda.” But she was an Adept as well, and she would be just as likely to use An’desha to destroy Falconsbane, then proceed to finish the job by ridding herself of An’desha. What did she need him for, after all? She had power of her own, and no fear of using it. And she was just as depraved as her former pupil. More; after all, she had schooled him in depravity.
There was a last possibility, as disgusting as it was. He could reveal his presence to Falconsbane, and strike a bargain with him. The “coercions” Falconsbane kept thinking about had been put on the Adept, not on An’desha. If Falconsbane cared to remain in a passive mode and simply instruct An’desha, the Shin’a’in might be able to use their powers to free both of them. . . .
Yes, he could try to strike a bargain to that effect. Offer Falconsbane the way out of this gilded trap in return for simple survival; taking no more than he already had, a little corner of the Adept’s mind.
Except that such a bargain would make him no better than Falconsbane; to know everything the creature had done and turn a blind eye to it in the hope of staying “alive” was as nauseating as anything Falconsbane himself had ever done. It would be a betrayal of all those Falconsbane had destroyed. Further, such a plan assumed Falconsbane would actually keep any bargain he made, and nothing of what An’desha knew of him gave any reassurance the Adept would do any such thing.
He felt tied into a hundred knots by conflicting emotions. Only one thing really seemed clear. None of these folk were worth helping. If any of them had ever done a single decent thing in all their lives, they had certainly take pains to insure it went undiscovered.
I must listen to the Avatars and remain quiet. That was still not only the best plan, it was the only plan. I must help the Avatars as they ask; I must hope they can help me. That is the only plan, the only decent course to take.
:Wise choice, little one.: Tre’valen’s voice rang in his mind, so clearly that he glanced around, startled, looking for another physical presence in the room. But there was no one there; Tre’valen and Dawnfire rarely made physical manifestations since their first appearance. He understood why now; such things made a disturbance that could be sensed, if one were looking for it with the inner eye.
:Let the Falconsbane sleep,: the shaman-Avatar continued. :Meet us upon the Moonpaths, where we cannot be overheard or overlooked.:
With relief, An’desha abandoned his hold on the body he and Falconsbane shared, and turned his focus in the direction Tre’valen had taught him, within and without. There was a moment of dizziness, a moment of darkness, and a moment in which he felt he was falling and flying at the same time. Then he found himself standing upon a patch of pristine white sand, in a world made of mist and light, and all that had transpired in the time it took to draw a quick breath.
Tre’valen and Dawnfire were already there, looking quite ordinary, actually, although they glowed with a soft, diffused inner light. It was easier to “see” them here; Tre’valen looked like any of the younger shaman of the Clans, as familiar as his horse or saddle. Lovely Dawnfire on the other hand was garbed in odd clothing that made her look like a slender birch tree wrapped in snow—her hair was long and as white as a snowdrift—and she was as exotic as he had imagined the Hawkbrothers to be when he had first run off to seek them. But her smile and her wink made her still enough like
a young scout of the Shin’a’in that he felt comfortable around her.
Except when he looked directly into the eyes of either of them . . . for they shared the same eyes, eyes without pupil, iris, or white; eyes the same bright-spangled black of a starry night sky. The Eyes of the Warrior . . . and the single sign that they were truly Her creatures. Those eyes made him shiver with awe and not a little dread, and reminded him that whatever they had been, these two Avatars were not human anymore.
So he tried to avoid looking into their eyes at all; not at all difficult, really, since he tended to keep his own glance fixed firmly on his own clasped hands whenever he spoke with them on the Moonpaths. Strange, how his body here looked like the one he had worn before he left his Clan and home, and not like the strange half-beast creature that Mornelithe Falconsbane had twisted it into.
“We have a new teaching for you, An’desha,” Tre’valen said matter-of-factly. “It should help you seal your control over Falconsbane’s body so that when he sleeps you will not awaken him by moving the body about.”
Even as he spoke, An’desha felt Dawnfire’s mental “hand” brush the surface of his own mind, and he absorbed the lesson effortlessly. And he even managed to smile shyly up into those two pairs of unhuman eyes, in thanks.
He took all the time he needed to study the implanted memory, to examine it and walk its pathway until he was certain he could follow their lesson exactly. And it was a most welcome gift. Such an ability would make things easier for him, for if Falconsbane’s healing body demanded food while he slept, or made other needs known, such things would eventually wake the Adept so that An’desha must quickly and quietly retreat into watchful hiding. Now he would be able to silence the needs of the body before Falconsbane woke, and that would give him more uninterrupted time in full control. It was only when Falconsbane slept soundly, for instance, that An’desha dared to walk the Moonpaths. He feared, and so had the Avatars warned, that if Falconsbane woke while An’desha was “absent,” An’desha would not be able to rejoin his body without the Adept noticing that something was different.
“Be patient, An’desha,” Tre’valen said, but in a voice full of sympathy and kindness. “We know how tempting it must be to try to find some other, quicker way to rid yourself of the beast. But truly, our way is the surest, and even it is uncertain. We give you only a chance, but it is a chance with honor. There would be much less honor in any of the other paths you have contemplated. None of these people are worth the backing, as you yourself thought, much less worth making even temporary allies of them. Even trying to deceive them would be fraught with both peril and dishonor.”
He hung his head in embarrassment and a little shame. Tre’valen was right, of course. And it had been making a choice with no concern for honor that had gotten him here in the first place, a fact that Tre’valen kindly omitted to mention.
“If you are very, very careful,” Dawnfire continued in her high, husky voice, “you will even have ample opportunity to undermine all of them. She knows; She has faith in your good heart. Remember the Black Riders.”
He looked up again and nodded. The Swordsworn seldom miss their marks. The Leshy’a Kal’enedral, never. That was a Shin’a’in proverb as old as the Swordsworn themselves. And yet, in shooting at Falconsbane, ostensibly to kill, they had missed, and had left the body holding both An’desha and Falconsbane alive. Then the Black Riders had appeared, bringing gifts that Falconsbane had thought were for him, but were truly for An’desha—a tiny black horse, the kind given to a child on his birthday, the token that he was ready for his first real horse and would be permitted to pick out a foal to train on his own. And the black ring, the ring Tre’valen had told him was worn only by those sworn to the service of all four faces of the Goddess. An’desha now knew, as Falconsbane did not, that if the Adept had ever held the ring up to strong sunlight, the seemingly opaque black ring would show a fiery heart that contained every color of earth, air, sky and water, a fitting symbol for those sworn to every face of the Shin’a’in Goddess.
And then, after the Black Riders had shown their tokens, Tre’valen and Dawnfire had appeared.
They would not lie. They came to help him; She meant to help him save himself, if it could be done. He must not let this fear and uncertainty break him; must not let the filth of Falconsbane destroy his own soul and all his hopes. There was honor in the world, and kindness, and decency.
He must help those who brought those virtues to his aid, even if it meant that he—
He froze for a moment, as the thought ran on to its inescapable conclusion.
Even if it meant giving up his own chance at life and freedom.
There were things worse than death, after delving into Falconsbane’s mind he knew that. He would be worse than a rabid animal if he chose his own survival over taking the opportunity to stop something like Falconsbane.
And this was a thought that would never have occurred to the “old” An’desha.
Old. . . . He suddenly felt old, a thousand years old, and weary—and very frightened. But quite, quite sure of himself now.
A faintly-glowing hand touched his; it was joined by another. He looked up to see the Avatars standing one on either side of him, clasping their hands over the ones he had locked in front of himself. The warmth of their care and concern filled him; their friendship warmed the cold heart of him.
“Thank you, An’desha.” That was all that Tre’valen had to say, but An’desha knew that the Avatar had read his internal struggle and his conclusion and approved. He looked down again, but this time it was with a glow of pride. Whatever else came of this—Her chosen servants had given him their own accolade.
“We did not wish to prompt you into that decision, but now that you have made it, we can be more open with you,” Dawnfire told him. She took her hand from his, although the warmth that had filled him remained, and she cupped some of the mist that eddied about them in her hands. “Look here—” she continued, and the handful of mist glowed, and vague figures formed and sharpened within it. He recognized most of them, both from Falconsbane’s memories and from stolen glimpses through Falconsbane’s eyes.
Two young Hawkbrothers; one ruggedly handsome, though a trifle careworn, and one that he did not recognize, but who was so beautiful that his breath caught. The first was Falconsbane’s old enemy, Darkwind k’Sheyna, the son of the Adept he had corrupted. The second—
“He is Firesong k’Treva, a Healing Adept,” Dawnfire replied to his unvoiced thought. “He is an ally of yours, although neither of you knew it. It was he that came to the aid of k’Sheyna.”
An odd feeling stole over him for a moment, as he stared at that flamboyantly beautiful face. He would like to be more than an ally with that one. . . .
He shook his head dismissively as the two figures faded and two more replaced them. One also, he knew. The Outlander from Northern lands, the young woman whose potential Falconsbane desired to devour. Both dressed in white garments, and both with blue-eyed white horses.
“Elspeth and Skif, both what are called ‘Heralds’ out of Valdemar. The Heralds are Clan-allies to Tale’sedrin,” Tre’valen added, in a decisive tone, and An’desha nodded. That was all he needed. Anyone who had won acceptance of any of the Clans had won it from all. And if they were Clan-allies, An’desha was honor-bound to assist them.
Honor. There it was again. It became easier to understand when one lived it, rather than looking at it from outside.
A single figure took their place, one that could have been a fragile, feminine version of Falconsbane; a young woman with a feline cast to her features, carrying a sword. And, oh, he knew this one from many, many of his worst moments, both within Falconsbane’s memories and as unwilling witness to atrocity. “Nyara,” he said, biting off the word. His gorge rose at the sight of her, but not because she repulsed him but because what had been done to her by her own father repulsed him.
She is my “daughter” as well, because the body that sired her is
mine—but I had nothing to do with it. I did not torture her mind and body. And yet her blood is mine, she is of outClan and Shin’a’in breeding as I am. How much responsibility do I have to her? It was not the first time he had asked himself that question, but it was the first time he had felt there was any chance he could do something about the answer.
It was something he would have to think about for a long time. If he had felt old before, he now felt terribly young. His body might be over half a century old, but he often felt as if he were still the boy who had run from his Clan and his responsibilities. His “life,” such as it was, had been lived in moments and glimpses.
“Yes,” Dawnfire replied, “and free of her father. You would find her willing to aid you to the end of her powers. She has a score to settle with Falconsbane.”
Lastly, two other creatures crowded the first out of the mist. Gryphons—and Falconsbane harbored a hatred for gryphons that was quite, quite insane, but these two in particular were apt to trigger rages, for they had eluded and defeated him time and time again, and he would likely do anything for a chance to destroy them.
“Treyvan and Hydona, and you would find them as apt to your aid as Nyara,” said Tre’valen. “They have as much to call Falconsbane to account for as Nyara does. He violated their young, among other things.”
Dawnfire opened her hands and the mist flowed away, losing its colors and dispersing into the starlight that surrounded them.
“These are your allies, An’desha,” Dawnfire said, her face grave and her night-starred eyes looking somewhere beyond him. In that moment she looked like a beautiful but impassive statue. “They approach this land even now, coming to the land of Ancar’s enemies, the land of Valdemar.”
Winds of Fury Page 14
