Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Ssssso,” Hydona sighed, after a long and luxurious scratch. “Thisss is your patrol time—it musst be busssinesss that bringsss you. And bussinesss isss ssseriousss. How can we help?”

  Darkwind looked into her brilliant, deep eyes. “I want to ask advice, and maybe some favors,” he said. “I seem to have acquired a problem.”

  Hydona’s ear-tufts perked up. “Acquired a problem? Interesssting word choicssse. Ssssay on.”

  He chose a comfortable rock, as she curled up beside her mate. “Well,” he began. “It happened this way....”

  Chapter Nine

  ELSPETH

  Master Quenten reread the message from his old employer, Captain Kerowyn. Herald Captain Kerowyn, he was going to have to remember that. Not that the new title seemed to have changed her much.

  “Quenten, I have a job for you, and a sizable retainer enclosed to make you go along with it. Important Personage coming your way; keep said Personage from notice if possible; official and sensitive business. Will have one escort along, but is capable of taking care of self in a fight. Personage needs either a mage-for-hire, a damn good one, or training. Or both. Use your own judgment, pass Personage on to Uncle if you have to. Thank you for your help. Write if you find a real job. Kerowyn.”

  He smiled at the joke; no, Kerowyn hadn’t changed, even since becoming one of the white-clad targets for the Queen of Valdemar—although Quenten also had no doubts that she refused to wear the white uniform without a royal decree. Quenten thanked the courier for the message, and offered him the hospitality of the Post for his recovery-stay. It was graciously accepted, and the young man—one of King Faram’s squires—offered to share gossip of the Rethwellan Court with him in return come dinner.

  And people wonder how we get our information.

  The squire was an affable youngster, fresh from the hill district, with the back-country burr still strong in his speech. He made Quenten quite nostalgic for the old days with the Skybolts; a good half of them came out of the hill district facing Karse, with their tough little ponies and all their worldly goods in a saddle-pack up behind them. What they lacked in possessions, they tended to make up for in marksmanship, tracking, and a tough-minded approach to life; something Kero had called “Attitude.”

  He had all of that, with a veneer of gentility that told Quenten he was from one of the noble families that hung on there, after fighting their way to the local high seat and holding it by craft, guile, and sheer, stubborn resilience. His eyes went round at Quenten’s pair of mage-lights over the table, though he never said a word about them. He knew how to use the eating utensils though, which was more than Kero’s hill lasses and lads generally did. He’d gotten that much out of civilization.

  But because he was so new to Court, he couldn’t tell Quenten what the mage really wanted to know—just who and what this Personage was.

  “There’s two of ‘em, about a day behind me, I’d reckon,” the young man said around a mouthful of Quenten’s favorite egg-and-cheese pie. “One man, one girl, done up all in white, with white horses. Fast, they are, the horses I mean. I say about a day ’cause I started out a week ahead, but I reckon they’ve made it up by now, that’s how fast them horses are.”

  Well, “done up all in white” in connection with the note from Kero meant they were Heralds out of Valdemar, but what Heralds could possibly want with a mage was beyond him. He recalled quite vividly his encounter with Valdemar’s Border-protections. He didn’t think they’d be able to pay any mage enough to put up with that.

  Still, that wasn’t for him to say; maybe there was a way around it. He’d have to wait and see.

  But who were these Heralds? They’d have to be important for Kero to exert herself on their behalf—and equally important for King Faram to have sent one of his own squires on ahead with Kero’s message to warn him that they were coming.

  He put that question to the youngster over dessert, when the squire had sipped just enough of Quenten’s potent, sweet wine to be a little indiscreet.

  Ehrris-wine does it every time.

  The young man rolled his wide blue eyes. “Well as to that,” he replied, “No one’s said for sure. But the young lady, I think she must be related. I overheard her call His Majesty ‘Uncle,’ when the King gave me the packet and instructions just before I left. I reckon she’s Daren’s get, though I’d never heard of her before.”

  Daren’s child? Quenten snorted to himself with amusement. And a Herald of Valdemar? Not unless the twins are aging a year for every month since they’ve been born. But Selenay’s oldest child, now that’s a possibility, though I wouldn’t have thought they’d let her out of the city, much less the Kingdom. Interesting. Something must be going on in that war with Hardorn that I don’t know about. I’d thought it was back to staring at each other across the Border.

  He sat back in his chair while the young man rattled on, and sipped his own wine. Suddenly the stakes were not just Kero asking a favor; not with a princess riding through Rethwellan incognito, looking for mages to hire. This had all the flavor of an intrigue with the backing of the Valdemaran Crown, and it promised both danger and the possibility of rapid and high advancement. Quenten had a good many pupils that would find those prospects attractive enough to chance the protections keeping mages out. Maybe they even found a way to cancel them. That might be why they’re finally coming down here now.

  In fact—now that Quenten was Master-Class, and could be a low-level Adept if he ever bothered to take the test-it was possible that it was attractive enough to interest him. It might be worth trying to find a way around those “watchers,” whatever they were, if they hadn’t been countered already.

  Court Mage of Valdemar.... For a moment visions of fame and fortune danced in his head. Then he recalled why he wasn’t a Court Mage now—the competition, the rivalry, and above all, the restrictions on what he could and could not do or say. He’d been offered the position and more than once. So had Jendar, as far as that went. Both of them had preferred to help friends to the post—friends who would tell them what was going on—and keep up casual ties with the rulers of the time. Sometimes a King preferred to go outside his Court for advice ... to a mage, say, with no other (obvious) axes to grind.

  He laughed at himself, then, and bent his attention to the amusing stories the young squire brought from Court. And remembered what he had once told Kero.

  If I have to choose between freedom to do what’s right, and a comfortable High Court position, I’ll take the freedom.

  She had shrugged, but her smile told him that she tacitly agreed with him. Which was probably why she was making a target of herself in Valdemar right now.

  We’re both fools, he thought, and chuckled. The squire, who thought the mage was chuckling at one of his jokes, glowed appreciatively.

  Quenten used the same office and suite of rooms that the Captain had, back when Bolthaven was the Skybolts’ winter quarters, and not a mage-school. Placed high up in a multistory tower that overlooked most of the town as well as the former fortress, he had a clear view of the main gate and the road leading to it, the exercise yard, and most of the buildings. Kero might not recognize the place at first sight anymore; the exercise yard had been planted and sodded, and turned into a garden, he’d had trees and bushes brought in and scattered about to provide shade, and most of the buildings had been refaced with brick. The barracks were a dormitory now, and looked it, with clothing drying on the sills, food or drink placed there to cool, kites flying from the rooftop, and youngsters sitting or hanging out of most of the windows. The main stable was a workshop, where anything that was likely to blow the place up could be practiced in relative safety. Only the smaller visitors’ stable remained to house the few horses Bolthaven needed. While he kept the stockade, as a means of defining boundaries beyond which the students were not permitted without permission, the place didn’t look like a fortress anymore, it looked like what it was; a school. And not just any school; the largest White Winds
school in Rethwellan. The only one that was larger was the school Kethry had attended, in Jkatha. Her son Jendar, Quenten’s teacher, had founded a school near Petras, the capital of Rethwellan, in a little town called Great Harsey, but it had never been this large.

  Then again, mage-schools can be dangerous for the innocent townsfolk. Sometimes things get a little out of hand. Townsfolk can get downright touchy over the occasional earth-elemental in the scullery. Can’t imagine why....

  That hadn’t been a problem for Quenten. The town of Bolthaven had been built around the garrison, the folk here depended on it for their custom. They’d been relieved to learn that there would still be custom here, and most of them had been able to turn their trades to suit young mages instead of young mercs. And, all told, an earth-elemental in the scullery did less damage—and was less of a hazard to the problematical virtue of the help—than any drunken merc bent on celebration.

  The worst that ever came up from Bolthaven now was an urgent call for one of the teachers, followed by a polite bill for damages.

  Quenten’s desk was right beside the window; a necessity, since he spent very little time in doing paperwork—that’s what he had clerks for—and a great deal of time in overseeing the pupils and classes. Some of that “overseeing” was conducted from his desk—an advantage mages had over mercenary captains. He could “look in” on virtually anything he chose, at any time, simply by exercising a little of the power that came with the rank of Master mage.

  Just now he was keeping an eye on the road, in between considering the proposed theses of four would-be Journeymen. The messenger had departed early this morning; since then, he’d been waiting for the Personage. Not with impatience—a mage soon learned the futility of impatience—but with growing curiosity.

  He wasn’t certain what to expect, really. On rereading the note, he saw that Kero had said that he should give this girl training, something he hadn’t taken a great deal of notice of the first time around. Now that was interesting—Kero herself was not a mage, but she had somehow managed to spot potential mages in the past and send them to either him or her uncle. Had she seen something in this girl?

  Or was it simply something the girl herself wanted? Had she absorbed tales of what Kero’s mages had done until she had convinced herself that she, too, could become a mage?

  Well, that was possible, but not without the Talent for it. Unless you could See and manipulate the energies mages used, she could fret herself blue without getting anywhere.

  Even those who followed the blood-paths had at least a little of the Talent. There were varying degrees in what mages could do, too. Not only did the strength of the Talent vary—thus dictating how much energy a mage could handle—but the kind of Talent varied—thus dictating the kind of energy he could handle. Some never became more than earth-mages and hedge-wizards, using their own life-energies to sense what was going on in the world around them, augmenting the natural attributes of plants and animals to serve them, and Healing. Not that there was anything wrong with that; Quenten himself had seen some very impressive mere work done by hedge-wizards with a firm grasp of their abilities and a determination to make the most of them. The tiniest change at the right moment can down a king ... or an army.

  But he rather doubted that being told she would never be anything other than a hedge-wizard would satisfy a headstrong princess. Nor would being told she could not be any kind of a mage at all.

  He was prepared for just about anything, or so he told himself; from a spoiled brat who thought a white uniform and a coronet entitled her to anything she wanted, to a naive child with no Mage-Talent whatsoever, but many dreams, to someone very like some of his older pupils—

  That would be the best scenario in many ways, to have her turn out to be teachable; with Mage-Talent present, but unused, so that he could give her what she wanted, but would not have to force her to unlearn bad habits. Theoretically, the discipline required by the Heralds’ mind-magic would carry over, and give her a head start over Talented youngsters who had yet to learn the value of discipline.

  A flash of white on the road just below the gate alerted him, and he paused for a moment to key in his Mage-Sight. That, in particular, had improved out of all recognition since joining the Skybolts and his elevation to Master-class. If this child had any ability at all, he would be able to See it, even from the tower. Then he would know what to tell her if she asked for training. And he’d have some time to think about just how he was going to phrase it, be it good news, or bad.

  Two dazzlingly white-clad riders on pure white horses entered the main gate and paused for a moment in the yard beyond before dismounting.

  And that was when Quenten got one of the greatest shocks of his life.

  Whatever he had been expecting—it wasn’t what he Saw.

  The ordinary young woman with the graceful white horse was—not ordinary at all. She was the bearer of an untrained, but major Mage-Gift; one so powerful it sheathed her in a closely-wrapped, sparkling aura in his Mage-Sight, that briefly touched everyone around her with exploratory fingers she was apparently unaware of. Quenten was astonished, and surprised she hadn’t caused problems with it before this. Surely she must have Seen power-flows, energy-levels, even the nodes that he could See, but could not use. Surely she had wondered what they were, and how could she not have been tempted to try and manipulate them? Then he recalled something; these Heralds, one and all, had mind-magic and were trained in it. If they didn’t know what Mage-Talent was—it could, possibly, be mistaken for something like Sight. And if she was told that this was just another way of viewing things, that she could not actually affect them, she might not have caused any trouble.

  They have no idea how close they came. If she had ever been tempted to touch something....

  That was not the end of the surprises. She was carrying at her side something that radiated such power that it almost eclipsed her—and only long familiarity with Kero’s sword enabled him to recognize it as Need. The sword had changed; had awakened somehow, and it was totally transformed from the relatively simple blade he had dealt with. Now there was no doubt whatsoever that it was a major magical artifact—and it radiated controlled power that rivaled the Adepts he knew.

  It’s a good thing I never tried mucking around with it when it was like this. It probably would have swatted me like a fly.

  He wondered how he could have missed it when they were riding in; it must have been like a beacon. And how the mages at Faram’s Court could have missed it—

  He had his answer, as it simply—stopped what it was doing. It went back to being the simple sword he had known; magical, yes, if you looked at it closely enough, but you had to look very closely and know what you were looking for.

  Did it put on that show for my benefit? he wondered. Somehow that idea was a little chilling. No one he knew could detect Mage-Sight in action; it was a passive spell, not an active one.

  No one he knew. That didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. That notion was even more awe-inspiring than the display of power had been. Need was old; perhaps the ancient ways of magic it was made with harbored spells he couldn’t even dream of.

  The creature she was riding—not a horse at all, even if it chose to appear as one—rivaled both the young woman and the sword, but in a way few would have recognized. The aura enveloping it was congruent with the creature’s skin, as if controlled power was actually shining through the skin. Which was very much the case.... Although few mages would have known it for what it was, Quenten recognized it as a Guardian Spirit of the highest order. And from the colors of its aura, it was superior even to the Ethereal Spirits he had once, very briefly, had conversation with when some of the Shin‘a’in relatives came to Bolthaven for the annual horse-fair—the ones Kero’s other uncle called “spirit-Kal‘enedral,” that served the Shin’a‘in Goddess. The “veiled ones,” shaman Kra’heera had called them; the unspoken implication being that only the spirit-Kal‘enedral went veiled. They were to this
“horse” what an eating knife is to a perfectly balanced rapier.

  One blow after another, all within a heartbeat. He practically swallowed his tongue with shock and dropped his arms numbly to his sides.

  For a moment, he felt like an apprentice again, faced with his Master, and the vision of what that Master had become after years and years of work in developing his Talent to its highest pinnacle placed before him. All that power—all that potential—and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with it.

  His mind completely froze for a moment as he stared at her. I can’t take her on! his thoughts babbled in panic. One slip—and she wouldn’t just blow up the workshop, she could—she could—and that Guardian—and the sword—and—and—

  Only years of self-discipline, combined with more years of learning to think on his feet with the Skybolts, enabled him to get his mind working again so that he could stop reacting and start acting like a mage and a competent Master, instead of a dumbfounded apprentice.

  And the first thing he did was to turn away from the window. With her out of his sight and Sight, he was able to take a deep breath, run his hand through his sweat-damp hair, and think. Quickly. He had to come up with an answer and a solution.

  One thing was certain; it wasn’t a question of whether she could be trained or not; she had to be trained. One day, she might be tempted to try to manipulate some of the energies she could sense all around her, and then—

  No telling what would happen. Depends on what she touched, and how hard she pulled.

  It could be even worse if she were in a desperate situation and she simply reacted instinctively, trying to save herself or others. With the thrust of fear driving her—

  Gods. And the very first thing we are taught is never, ever, act in fear or anger.

  She would be easy prey for anyone who saw her, and wanted to use her. There were blood-path Masters and even Adepts out there who wouldn’t hesitate to lure her into their territory with promises of training, and then exploit her ruthlessly, willing or not. Anyone could be broken, and no mage had gotten to the Master level without learning the patience it took to break someone and subvert them, even if it took a year or more.