Falconsbane did not intend to leave an angry Adept on his backtrail when he left. The woman might make the mistake of trying to take him for herself.
If Ancar killed Hulda, he would have to devote everything he had to the attempt, and Falconsbane could break free as soon as the last bit of Ancar’s strength and attention went to the struggle. He might even help Ancar, a little and unobtrusively.
Then when Ancar lay completely exhausted, Falconsbane would kill him. Sadly, it would be so swift he would not gain much blood-magic power from it, but not all things in the world were ideal.
And then—he would have to flee. Either westward or southward; things should be chaotic enough with both obvious leaders gone that he could get back into territory he knew without recapture. If he had to cross Valdemar—well, he could simply cloak himself in the illusion of a simple human peasant, fleeing the war. He could feign being simple-minded to cover his lack of the language.
He toyed briefly with the notion of staying here and attempting to take the kingdom over—but no. Firstly, Ancar had laid waste to it in his foolish warring. At the moment, it was not worth having. There would be two hostile forces inclined to move in, at least, and perhaps more. He did not know this land, and all it would take would be one lucky fool at a moment of his own weakness to kill him. No one native to this place would ever suffer his rule willingly.
No, he must return home, pick up the pieces, build his power back to what it had been, and see what had happened to the Hawkfools in his absence. There were still the artifacts under the Dhorisha Plains to acquire—the permanent Gate beneath the ruins near k’Sheyna to explore—and revenge to be taken. His daughter was still loose, somewhere. And that most desirable mage-sword.
And gryphons. . . .
Gryphons. . . .
Chapter Fourteen
Falconsbane drifted off into sleep, dreaming of gryphons in torment. Some were faded memories, some were fancies of his, a few cruelties he hadn’t yet tried. The dreams were as tortured as the man was twisted, and An’desha could hardly wait for them to fade into the formlessness of deep sleep. When Falconsbane slept, An’desha relaxed and waited for the Avatars to appear. If he’d had a stomach, it would have been twisted with nerves; if he’d had a body, he would have paced. That was one of the problems—there was a body, but it was no longer his.
The last time the Avatars came to him, they promised him that they had found his outside allies on the way, and that he would be able to Mindspeak with one in particular directly—and very soon. They warned him that this would only be possible while Falconsbane was deeply asleep and An’desha could walk the Moonpaths, but the prospect of actually having someone who could speak to him and help him in a rea and physical way was so wonderful that it had not mattered. One person, at least, would know his secret and would work to free him.
As Falconsbane’s breathing slowed, the fire on the hearth flared for a moment, and a pair of glowing eyes in a tiny human face winked into existence. It was Tre’valen; he spread his arms there in the flames for the briefest of moments. The halo of transparent hawk wings shone around them.
:Come,: he said, and beckoned. An’desha did not need a second invitation; nervous energy catapulted him from this world into the next. As Tre’valen passed from the fire to the other worlds that held the Moonpaths, An’desha followed in his now-familiar wake.
He flung himself after Tre’valen with heart and will, going in and then out—
And, as he had so many times before, found himself standing beside the Avatar, on a pathway made of pearlescent light, surrounded by luminescent gray mist. Once again, he walked the Moonpaths with the Avatar of the Star-Eyed. But next to the Avatar was, not Dawnfire, but someone entirely new.
The newcomer was an old woman, but strong and built like a fighter, with knotted muscles and face and arms burned brown by the sun and toughened with work in all weathers. She wore strange garments made of dark leather, simple breeches and an odd cape-shirt that seemed to have been made of an entire brain-tanned deerhide. Her hair was cut off at chin length and was as gray as iron and straight as grass. She stood beside Tre’valen with her hands on her hips, and although her face was seamed with wrinkles that indicated a certain stem character, he caught a kindly twinkle in her black eyes.
He liked her instinctively; if this had been his Clan shaman, he might never have tried to run away.
“So this is the boy,” she said, and reached out to seize his chin so she could peer into his eyes. He had the distinct impression that she was weighing and measuring everything he was and had ever been. “Huh. You need some shaping, some tempering, and that’s for certain. You’re not pot-metal, but you’re not Lattle-steel either, not yet.”
He traded her look for look, sensing that shyness and diffidence would win nothing from her but contempt. “I haven’t exactly had an opportunity for tempering, Wise One,” he replied. “My experiences have been limited by circumstance.”
Tre’valen laughed silently, his star-filled eyes somehow seeming more human than usual, and the old woman’s lips twitched as if she were trying not to laugh herself. “And why is that, boy?”
“Because—” he faltered for a moment, losing his courage as he was forced to actually say what he was. Or rather, was not, anymore. “—because my body belongs to Falconsbane, and any moments that I live I must steal from him.”
She raised an eyebrow, as if she did not find this to be so terrible. “Oh, so? And I suppose you feel very sorry for yourself, eh? You feel the fates have mistreated you?”
He shook his head. “Yes. No. I mean—”
“Ha. You don’t even know your own mind.” She lifted her lip in a faint sneer and narrowed her gaze. “Well, this fellow here has told me all about you, and I’ll tell you what I think. I could feel sorry for you, but I won’t. I’ve known too many people with hard lives or harder deaths to feel sorry for you. And what’s more, if you indulge yourself in self-pity, I’m gone! I don’t waste my time on people who spend all their time pitying themselves and not doing anything. You want out of this situation, boy, you help make it happen!”
The words stung, but not with the crack of a whip, or as salt in a wound, but rather as a brisk tap to awaken him. He lifted his chin and straightened his back. For all the harshness of her words, there was a kindliness in her tone that made him think she really did feel sorry for him, and would help him the best way she knew how.
And she was right; was Nyara’s lot not much harder than his own? And any of Falconsbane’s victims had perished in pain that surely exceeded anything that had happened to him! “Yes, Wise One,” he said, forthrightly. “Tre’valen has already explained all this to me. If I am to take my body and my life back, I must earn the aid to do so. I was a coward, Wise One, but not a fool. Or rather, I was a fool before, but I am no longer one, I hope.”
She snorted, but the smile was back and the sneer was gone. “Piff. A brave man is simply someone who doesn’t let his cowardice and fear stop him. Hellfires, boy, we’re all cowards at some time or another. Me, I was afraid of deep water. Never did learn to swim.”
He had to smile at that. Oh, this was a crusty old woman, but she had a good heart, and a keen mind that must make her a kind of shaman among her own people. And she did want to help him, he knew it now as well as he knew his own predicament. Somehow her will to help him made him more confident than the Avatars’ promises. They were otherworldly and uncanny, but she was as earthy and real as a good loaf of bread. As the Shin’a’in proverb went, “It is easier to believe in grain than spirits.”
“I should rather think that the water would fear you, Wise One, and part to let you pass,” he said, greatly daring but feeling she would like the attempt at a joke.
She did; she laughed, throwing her head back and braying like a donkey. “All right, Tre’valen, you were right, he’ll do. He’ll do.”
:I said so, did I not?: Tre’valen countered, amused.
She turned serious, all in
a moment. “Now listen, boy. You remember those people Falconsbane wanted to get his claws into so much? The daughter, the girl in white, the Hawkbrother boy? The ones Tre’valen told you were going to be coming this way to do something about Ancar and Falconsbane?”
He nodded. Nyara he knew too well. The girl of the white spirit-steed was one that Falconsbane had coveted, and had never even touched. The Hawkbrother—Darkwind, he remembered—was the son of Starblade, the Hawkbrother mage Falconsbane had gleefully corrupted.
He winced away from the memories that name called up, and not just because they were unpleasant, but because there had been moments of pleasure there, too. Falconsbane was an Adept at combining pleasure and pain, as well as an Adept mage. And he had taken pleasure in the pain, and used the pleasure to cause pain. That was what made An’desha so uncomfortable with those memories . . . that was what felt so . . . unclean. Falconsbane knew so much—and to use what he knew in the way he did—that made him all the worse, for he could have used it to such good ends had he wished. The Avatars did, and this woman had power. And the others—
“Well, those three are coming. To Hardorn, here. They are on the way right this very moment. They intend to get Ancar and Hulda—and Falconsbane; eliminate them completely, before Ancar can destroy Valdemar. What we—you, me, and the Avatars—want to do is see if they can’t get Falconsbane without getting you. Do you understand what I’m saying?” She cocked her head to one side and regarded him carefully.
“Somehow we have to find a way to kill Falconsbane without killing my body, so I can have it back.” He shook his head, feeling a sudden sinking of spirits. Put baldly, he could not see how they could manage this. “I am no mage, Wise One, but that seems an impossible task,” he faltered.
She snorted. “Hellfires, boy, I’ve seen less likely than that come to pass in my time. Improbable, maybe. What’s impossible is how he has managed to flit from body to body, down all these years,” she countered. “We don’t know how he’s done it. If you can find that out for me, we have a chance.”
His spirits soared again. She had a point! Falconsbane had to have a way for his spirit to remain intact down all the centuries. And she was clearly a mage, so perhaps once she knew how the Adept had done this, perhaps she could see a way to force him out again.
He nodded with excitement, and she smiled. “Right,” she said. “Now, there are actually five people coming in on this, and three of ’em are Adepts, so among all of us, I think we have a pretty good chance of coming up with an answer for you. Say—” she added as an afterthought. “You want to see what they look like right now? I tell you, it’s worth seeing, you will not believe what they’re doing.”
“Oh—yes, please,” he replied, eagerly. Tre’valen had shown him these people once, but he was starved for another sight of them. One, in particular. . . .
A circular section of the mist between her and Tre’valen brightened—and then suddenly it was as if he were staring out a round window onto a road.
There were three riders framed in that “window,” riding side-by-side. First was that incredibly handsome young man, this time with his long hair bound in a single braid down the back of his neck, and dressed in a motley of robes that would have been, separately, breathtaking and striking, but worn together presented a vision of the most appalling bad taste that An’desha had ever seen in his life. Around his neck, the young man bore a jangling tangle of cheap and tawdry jewelry, and surmounting his head was a—
Well, An’desha could not call this “creation” a “hat.” It was turbanlike, but so huge that it made his head look as if he were the stem of a mushroom, with a huge, scarlet cap. It, too, was covered with tinsel and jewelry, and rising in moth-eaten splendor in the front was a cluster of the saddest plumes ever to have sprung from some unfortunate bird.
His mount was a dyheli, but one with gilded horns, ribbons woven in his tail, and mismatched bells jangling all over some kind of harness as bright and tasteless as the rider’s robes. The dyheli seemed to find this as amusing as the rider did.
And perched on his shoulder, in a state of resigned disgust, was a white firebird, wing-primaries and tail-feathers dyed in rainbow colors, with a huge ribbon-cluster tied onto its head, and ribbon-jesses trailing from bracelets on its legs. It was most definitely not amused.
An’desha smothered a giggle.
“Makes quite a sight, doesn’t he, our young Firesong,” the old woman said, grinning. “Now, looking at that, would you ever guess him to be a Tayledras Healing Adept?”
“Never,” An’desha said firmly. “Nor would I take him to be other than a charlatan.”
“Most wouldn’t take him at all,” she said dryly, “for fear his clothes might stick to them.”
It was hard to turn his attention away from Firesong—for even done up in all that laughable “finery” he made An’desha ache with odd longings. He did look away, though, for the other two riders would be just as important to him as the handsome young Hawkbrother.
They rode a pair of glossy, matched bays, but were otherwise completely unremarkable. They were just another pair of shifty-eyed toughs. Under the slouches and the skin-dye, the oily hair, the sneers and the scuffed leather armor, he could see that the two were that Elspeth and Skif he had also seen before, in Tre’valen’s vision. But it would have taken the eye of someone who knew them to see a pair of fine young Heralds in these two ne’er-do-wells. He guessed, from their postures, that when they walked, Skif would swagger, and Elspeth would slink. He would not have trusted either of them with a clipped coin, and he rather fancied that when they entered a place, women rushed to hide their children.
The vision shifted, and it was clear that the three were riding in front of a wagon, drawn by mules. And there was Nyara, beside the driver, wearing practically nothing at all, with a collar and chain holding her to a huge iron ring beside the wagon seat. She did not seem in any distress, however; in fact, she had draped herself across the seat in a languorous and seductive—and very animalistic—pose. Beside her, wearing a less flamboyant version of Firesong’s motley, was Darkwind. He slouched over the reins, his posture suggesting that he was both submissive and bored. His hawk sat on his shoulder, looking around alertly, with ribbon-jesses like the firebird’s, but without the ribbon-hat.
But the collar and leash on Nyara bothered him, and made him worried for her. What would she do if some toady of Ancar’s attempted some kind of attack? “The collar snaps right off,” the old woman assured him, evidently reading his mind as easily as the Avatars did. “She can be rid of it any time she likes. They’re playing at being entertainers, with a traveling Faire. Firesong’s a magician with a trick-bird act, Darkwind is his assistant, Nyara is his ‘captive cat-woman.’ She does a dance where she takes off most of her clothes, too; I tell you that makes the hair on these villagers curl. The other two are selling a bogus cure-all that Firesong supposedly makes. It’s spiced brandy with some good herbs in it, which is more than I can say for most quack cure-alls, and they price it about the same as a bottle of brandy, so people are willing to buy.”
An’desha stared at Nyara, not because he found her seductive, but because an idea was slowly beginning to form in his mind. “Wise One,” he offered, hesitantly, “You do know that if Falconsbane should hear rumors of a cat-woman, he would be eager to know more. He might even try to see her for himself. He does not know it was Nyara who smashed his crystal and flung him into the Void.”
“He doesn’t?” the old woman replied, her eyes brightening with interest.
“No,” An’desha said firmly. “I know his mind, and I know that he never knew that. At the moment, he believes that she fled into the East. He could readily believe she came far enough to be caught by these folk. And he does not know how far to the East he truly is from his home.”
“Really?” The old woman’s eyes narrowed in sudden concentration. “Now isn’t that a bit of interesting thought! I’ll pass that on, and we’ll see if we can’t bui
ld on it, eh?”
He smiled shyly back at her, and was about to ask her where she was in this caravan—and then felt the tuggings that meant Falconsbane was about to awaken.
“I must go!” he said—and plunged away.
The sparse crowd on either side of the road was quiet. In Valdemar they’d have been cheering.
But this wasn’t Valdemar, and these people had little energy for cheers.
:You don’t deserve me,: Cymry said to Skif, with a chuckle in her mind-voice.
:So long as it’s mutual,: Skif replied. From anyone besides Cymry, he’d have taken offense, but such jabs between close friends were amusing, in a situation where little else was. He was worried about Nyara, wondering if she had overestimated her ability to cope with her role of sexual object. The stares of the men made her tenser than she admitted, and the strain of the dancing-show left her trembling with fear after every performance.
He scowled at the townsfolk, who stood outside their doors and stared at the passing wagons, a bit of interest coming into their otherwise sad and bleak-eyed faces. He didn’t really want to scowl, and it made him sorry to see the fear in their eyes when he gave them that unfriendly look, but the scowl fit the persona he wore. Hardorn had gotten worse since the last time he had been through it, and things hadn’t been all that good then. Most of the people had lost all hope, and it showed, in the untended streets, in the threadbare clothing, in the ill-kept houses.
:I know I don’t deserve you, but what brought that on?: he asked her.
:There’s a young man over there with a bad leg—see him?: she replied, pointing with her nose to the road just ahead. :He was in the cavalry, got hurt, and got kicked out, and he thinks you stole me—and he knows you don’t deserve me. He’s got some rudimentary Mindspeech, so I can hear him.:
And from the frown on the young man’s face, he was resentful enough to make his thoughts heard to anyone unshielded. It was fairly easy to see why he’d gotten the boot from the cavalry; he’d broken his leg and no one had bothered to set it properly, so it had healed all wrong. He could use it, but not well and he needed a cane; the leg jutted at a crooked angle that must have made walking an agony. Skif grimaced; that sort of thing would never have happened in Valdemar. It would never even have happened in Kero’s Skybolts, or any other good mere company.
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