Tempest

by Mercedes Lackey

  “What is the meaning of this?” Prince Egharevba’s voice boomed out and silenced all chatter and protests. Even Ganbaatar blinked, for this was not the friendly negotiator he had worked with for two days, but the regal Son of the King.

  “Examine this one’s belt pouch and possessions,” Sheski said, speaking slowly to make sure her diction in the trade tongue was as clear and crisp as possible. She didn’t move from the fallen Haighlei, not knowing how long the man might be stunned. “I think you will find among them the artifact that has been affecting the weather.” She almost chuckled aloud at the voluble response among the Khyrsmi to her words.

  :You must be a better actor than you think,: Dea’s mind-voice was calm, even amused. :That, and none of them know anything about gryphons.:

  Priest-Mage Aisosa hurried forward, as did the Khyrsmi shaman, while Frostmoon upended the unconscious man’s belt pouch over an oiled cape that he hastily smoothed out on the ground. Among the usual personal items were a tiny folded piece of paper and a smooth, oblong stone that glistened silver-black as the raindrops struck it. Frostmoon seized the paper, tucking it in his own pouch to keep it from getting wet, while Aisosa reached for the stone.

  “Stop!” cried the shaman, his words freezing Aisosa’s hand in midair. “Let us study it before we touch it.” He gave the Priest-Mage an apologetic half-smile, but what he might have said next was drowned out by Ganbaatar.

  “Deavann of White Gryphon, why do you threaten my nephew?”

  So, he is the Chieftain’s son, Sheski thought, lifting her head from the man she held trapped and turning to the Khyrsmi.

  “Look to the arrow that lies at your son’s feet,” Dea replied, her swordarm never lowering.

  Ganbaatar paused, then turned to examine the ground behind him, where the forgotten arrow lay. Stooping, he picked it up, then came forward to join the Prince and Captain Onabu. “It is a strange arrow,” he said, holding it out to them.

  “It’s fletched to look like a Kaled’a’in arrow, although too short to be used in our bows,” Sheski said, drawing the startled attention of the Khyrsmi back to her.

  Dark eyes slightly widened in trepidation, Ganbaatar walked to stand in front of her. “So, you are clearly another of the delegation, but we have not been introduced.”

  “I am Sheski Fellskae,” she replied. “Deavann and I are Silver Gryphons, as are Harfryth, Cloudfeather, and Frostmoon.” She tilted her head toward the other three. “We are the guards and scouts and protectors of the people of White Gryphon and our Haighlei allies.”

  “And why do you pin down this one, while your partner holds my nephew?”

  “We believe that they have been acting together, along with some others, to disrupt the alliance between the Khyrsmi and the Haighlei, and possibly to harm your son.”

  Ganbaatar narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

  “You would believe the word of this talking animal?” Sarnai erupted in fury. “I might as well ask the advice of the hawk on my shoulder!”

  The elder Khyrsmi drew himself to his full height and turned back to her. “I will believe the evidence of my own eyes and wits, Chieftain’s Hawk,” he replied, and Sarnai closed her mouth with an almost audible snap.

  Priest-Mage Aisosa, Frostmoon, and the Khyrsmi shaman had been having a hasty conversation, and now the shaman bent and drew a circle in the mud around the cloak that held the strange stone. Both he and Frostmoon paced around the circle, and Sheski’s Mage Sight identified a series of shields being built around the stone, one from each of the three men. As the first shield closed, the wind ceased, and with the second layer the rain lessened, until with the third shield it stopped entirely. The Haighlei who had come with the storms heaved sighs of relief, shaking out sodden hair and clothing and eyeing the clouds above distrustfully.

  The man beneath Sheski stirred, and she focused her attention back upon him. Before she could say anything, Captain Onabu and two of his guards were beside her, binding the dazed man hand and foot and dragging him to kneel before the Prince and await his commands.

  With one of the possible conspirators secured, and the Mage Weather temporarily neutralized, all eyes turned to Dea, who had not slackened her grip on the young Khyrsmi. He had not struggled much against her and now looked more like the frightened child he was.

  :He’s younger than I believed him,: Sheski Mindspoke Dea. :No more than twelve summers, if that.:

  :Old enough to attempt murder, even if it was someone else’s instruction,: Dea replied shortly.

  “Deavann, release my nephew,” Ganbaatar said, his voice calm but firm.

  Dea loosened her hold, allowing the boy to stand away from her but keeping her sword ready.

  “Turgen, come here,” Sarnai said, but Ganbaatar spoke before the boy could take more than a step.

  “Hold, nephew.” The boy paused, his eyes flickering back and forth between his mother and his uncle.

  “An arrow flew from among the Tribe,” Ganbaatar said, and the boy nodded reluctantly, eyes widening in fear. “This arrow was aimed at another of the Tribe,” he continued, his voice dropping into an almost ritual cadence. Another terrified nod. “This arrow was designed to start a battle, in which more than one of the Tribe might have been wounded or killed.” A shiver rippled through the boy, but still he stood. “What honor could this action have brought to the Tribe?”

  “None, Uncle,” came the whispered reply.

  “And what is done to those who dishonor the Tribe?”

  The boy’s face went white, and he could not speak.

  “Ganbaatar, this is ridiculous. You cannot banish the Chieftain’s son.” But there was a note of uncertainty beneath the stridence of Sarnai’s words.

  “I can, however, banish the one who attempts to murder the Chieftain’s heir.” Ganbaatar’s eyes never left his nephew’s. “Odgerel Sarnai, surrender your sword, your bow, and your hawk to Shaman Oktai. You are no longer of the Tribe.”

  It was Sarnai’s turn to go white as the shaman moved to stand in front of her, his hands held out. In the stunned silence, she handed over her weapons, then carefully shifted the hawk’s carry-pad off of her shoulder and onto the shaman’s. As she walked past the Khyrsmi, each of them turned away from her, except Ganbaatar and Turgen, who faced only each other.

  Sarnai slowly walked to the pony lines, unfastening the smallest and shabbiest of the animals. With one hand grasping his withers, she vaulted up and rode off bareback, not looking behind.

  :Well, that was unexpected,: Dea Mindspoke drily.

  When Sarnai had reached the dry plains, disappearing in a cloud of dust, Ganbaatar opened his arms, and his nephew flung himself into them with a burst of hot tears. The older man soothed him, while Dea sheathed her sword and returned to stand by Sheski and the other Silvers. The Haighlei and the Khyrsmi looked uncertainly at one another, all rules of etiquette failing them.

  “Truthsayer Itohan, I request your services, both to confirm the new terms of our alliance with the Khyrsmi and to unravel the truth of what Sheski and Deavann have prevented.” The Prince spoke with all the formal gravity he could muster, attempting to restore the dignity of protocol amid the bewilderment that surrounded them.

  As the dance of diplomacy reasserted itself, Frostmoon leaned forward between Sheski and Deavann, pitching his voice so that only the five Kaled’a’in could hear him.

  “Well done, Silvers.”

  Ripples and Cracks

  Larry Dixon and Mercedes Lackey

  The Hawkbrothers’ k’Valdemar Vale, meant to be a common point for the nation of Valdemar and the Tayledras to understand and work with each other, has had a few rough times. The Wingleader of their gryphon population, Kelvren Skothkar, took it upon himself to scout rumored Valdemaran internal conflicts. South of Deedun, he rushed into a rescue, was shot up, hacked up, and grounded fighting off a formidab
le mercenary unit. Lost to the Tayledras, and monstrous to the Valdemarans who retrieved him, Kelvren gained respect from the military and locals by using the last of his energy to heal a dying soldier.

  Mistreated by the nearest town’s mayor, though, Kelvren gathered his strength, used his talent for theatricality, and rallied the camp’s troops into favoring him. Word reached Haven, and famed gryphon Adept and explorer Treyvan dashed north to help the stricken gryphon. A desperate gamble with the new nature of magic was Kelvren’s only hope against a slow death, but it would most likely result in his incineration. A small chance was still a chance, and to him, a bold attempt beat certain failure.

  Hundreds gathered to watch the attempt: to create an energy node directly under—and through—Kelvren, within a Change Circle left over by the Storms. Treyvan’s arcane abilities did much more than rejuvenate Kelvren. Unexpectedly, Kelvren arose and blazed like a sun, then flew into the night, leaving a lingering trail of bright light on the road he flew over, toward the keep of the rogue city’s commanders.

  By the time Valdemaran troops took the criminals into custody, Kelvren was long gone, yet he’d left his mark on Valdemar, and in the memory of thousands of people. He could fly again, and, intending to be seen as a good omen and inspiration, he flew over Ghost Cat and the other Clan settlements—Errold’s Grove, Kelmskeep—and finally headed toward k’Valdemar at daybreak . . .

  • • •

  What a sight I must be! What an amazing sight! Kelvren thought as he approached k’Valdemar Vale. Two gryphons surged up through the Veil when he was leagues away and now banked in behind him, level, one on each side in an escort formation. Gleefully, he called to them, feeling as if he were in a scene from a story—a legendary story—returning triumphant, blazing with magic, magnificent and battle-proven and handsome, with an honor guard!

  Kelvren led the pair in a wide circle over the Vale, where he could see humans, hertasi, tervardi, even dyheli looking up at the spectacle. The Veil around the Vale distorted with the flyover, creating a rainbowed halo of light on its surface that followed him toward the Vale entrance. Excellent! he thought. I didn’t even plan that part. It must have looked great! I hope the artists were paying attention. And the songwriters.

  Kelvren’s escorts followed his lead, falling back farther so the glide to the entry road would be unobstructed for the lead gryphon. Kelvren slowed and backwinged, creating dazzling flashes and shadows against the trees and decorations, despite the brightening sky. The hundreds of rods surrounding the Vale, used here as posts for a burgeoning vineyard rather than buried or disguised, glowed when he coasted down to lightly touch the stonework. His flight was so effortless that he simply stepped down to the paving. The Vale’s rods gave off the illusion of a glow, bending toward him through the twining of grapevines.

  That doesn’t seem natural, but then again, neither am I right now. I am something new! Maybe they’re bowing to me. Maybe someone’s making them look like they’re bowing, as some welcome-home gesture! That is adorable.

  His escorts landed more firmly, carrying their momentum into a distance-closing stride. Kelvren didn’t recognize either of them, but then again, he had been gone a long time and must have missed new gryphons’ arrivals.

  “We will escort you farther,” the nearer of the two gryphons said as she approached. She was a breastplated and badged Silver Gryphon, umber and white with a narrow black crest. “The trondi’irns want to see you immediately, and the senior Mages, too.” She sounded anxious—no, she was edgy. “I’ve been Wingleader in your absence. You should know that you can’t resume command until you’re cleared by them.” She flicked her wings twice and raised her head, as if ready for an angry challenge. She added, “You’ve gone strange.”

  Kelvren looked at her and at the other gryphon. They both had their fighting claws strapped on, and Kelvren’s glow glinted back at him from their razor curves, from the two gryphons’ eyes, and from their badges. “I am still a senior Silver Gryphon. I am only different in my appearance,” Kelvren replied suspiciously. “I am still Kelvren Skothkar.”

  “They’ll determine who and what you are now,” the new Wingleader said flatly. “We will walk you in, or you can attempt to flee. If you try, the archers will drop you, and we’ll finish you.” For emphasis, she repositioned her forelegs a little wider apart, making the fighting claws more obvious. She had absolutely no warmth in her voice. “Don’t make this a sad day.”

  Kelvren opened his beak to reply and tried to speak to her with Mindspeech, but he found her utterly walled off. He then darted his gaze around, seeking other minds to speak to, but he found no one talkative. His vision was disrupted by the glare from his own body, but even so he had no doubt that unseen Tayledras scouts were ready to fell him should he try to take flight. No opponent saw Tayledras scouts until they chose to reveal themselves, and a target knew a scout was nearby only when they saw an arrow-shaft sticking out of their gut. “I can’t imagine what you’d think I could be—” he began, and was cut short.

  “Neither can we,” the new Wingleader snapped. “There are things we can’t imagine, so when a flyer who appears to be our missing Wingleader arrives ablaze like a new sun, we want to know more before we trust anything. In you go.”

  Kelvren agreed with the logic of it, sure, but that didn’t stop him from sulking. Huffily, he refolded his wings a few times and stalked toward the Vale’s main entry and the intricately laid red stones marking the Veil’s boundary. The tall arch’s usual complement of guards and greeters were gone—no festive celebration? He’d been heroic, and returned to . . . this? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  Wait, he thought, Wait. This isn’t right. There’s no cheering crowd for me to be modest in front of. Did something happen to the Vale? Is this the real Vale? And this new “Wingleader?” I don’t even know her, rank badges or not! I’d better be on my guard. . . .

  • • •

  The Vale smelled the way it should: flowers and aromatic oils, flavorful smoke, scents of cooking, healthy gardens, and generally full of life. Yet, apart from Bondbirds and the colorful flash of messenger birds, Kelvren saw nobody except for the two gryphons behind him after he passed through the Vale entry.

  His ears twitched in aggravation; he could hear voices aplenty, but aside from his surly escort, he saw no one of any intelligent species around no matter where he looked. He paused to rise up on his hind legs and then a single foot, part-perching in the air as gryphons could, and saw some humans and gryphons thirty-some wingspans away behind cover of archways and hedges.

  His movement only agitated his well-armed escort. The Wingleader snapped a sharp “Down!” at him, and Kel complied with a grumpy hiss back at her. Another pair of Silver Gryphons flew over, banked, and landed on the wide main path ahead of a four-way branch of paths. These two he knew well from before he’d left; in fact, he’d trained them in high-altitude search patterns. Or did I? he wondered. They look the same, but if this is some kind of illusion or mental attack, or if the Vale has been replaced somehow . . . they might only look the same. They don’t act happy to see me, and yet, they would surely have been part of the searchers for me, when I went missing. It wasn’t hard to spot that they bore the fighting claws and armored equipage of someone expecting a deadly fight, too—definitely not daily wear in a Vale and not for a polished honor guard to receive their heroic leader. Even gryphons had a dozen outfits, thanks to the hertasi. No, these four were herding him as if he were some high-ranking—or high-powered—prisoner.

  A mere three wingspans from the second pair of gryphons, Kelvren asked them, “What has happened here? Why aren’t there throngs of people here happy to see me?”

  Kurrundas, the gold-crested female on the left, answered guilelessly, “Because no one is happy to see you.”

  “That hurts,” Kelvren replied equally honestly. He stopped midway between the escorts. “And it doesn’t make sense
. Why wouldn’t everyone be happy to see me? I am Kelvren! The Brave! Hero of the North, Finder of the Lost, and Ally of Valdemar! Best friend of the Owl Knight!” He shot a very pointed look backward. “Wingleader of k’Valdemar!”

  “Don’t try me,” the new Wingleader growled.

  “Control your jealousy,” Kelvren retorted, then looked back to Kurrundas. “Seriously, Kurry, what is going on? I’ve never been disliked here, especially by the gryphons.”

  Kurrundas shifted her weight from foot to foot and ground her beak, and finally replied, “I have been ordered to not talk with you.” It was in a tone that actually said, ‘I want to tell you so much that we’d be here for a candlemark, but I don’t dare.’ Just the same, she did add, “Just go where we’re guiding you, and they’ll explain it.”

  Kelvren overdramatically flicked and swished his tail at them all as he turned onto the rightmost sidepath. If there had been branches to “accidentally” snap back at his “New Wingleader,” he would have, purely to spite her. Kelvren knew k’Valdemar’s layout to the smallest walkway, the highest tree, and the deepest pool, and before long he stepped into a council circle as expected, which was anything but unpopulated.

  Kelvren’s senses had only a moment to register the two dozen or more humans, gryphons, and hertasi before he was assaulted from multiple directions, by binding spells, mind readings, paralysis, and things he couldn’t even identify. Rings and tendrils of colored Mage energy whipped around him and rebounded wildly, licking at some of the attendees, who dove for cover. Short thundercracks and sizzling sounds erupted from below him.

  Kelvren threw his body upward as if to escape, but found himself with a single foot firmly frozen in place on the paving, his wings up half-spread and his back arched in, immobile but for his harsh breathing and a single strangled cry.