But they’d had mating-flights before, lots of them, and Darkwind had never forbidden her to go near. What was it that was so different this time?
Curiosity overcame embarrassment. Whatever it was, she was going to find out.
As first one, then the other of the gryphons launched themselves into the air, she circled the sky around them, keeping them in sight at all times.
The male—Treyvan—wheeled and stooped and circled his mate, who hovered as he circled, followed him in his dives, and climbed beside him as he dove upward again. This was not simply “flight”—this was an aerobatic dance, breathtaking and beautiful, and as impressive as anything she had ever witnessed.
The gryphons moved higher with every turn of the dance, gaining altitude as the dives grew shallower, the climbs steeper, and the circles more fluid and sensuous. They came even with Kyrr, then climbed above her, continuing to climb higher as she tried to follow. Finally they climbed into regions where she couldn’t follow, leaving her gazing in wonder from below....
Then there was just one single dot in the blue. And it was growing larger.
Dear gods—they mate on the wing, like eagles—
For two minutes they fell together, claws locked in ecstasy—plummeting toward the earth so fast that the wind whistled in their feathers, eyes closed—
—they aren’t going to—
At the last possible moment they broke apart, spreading their wings with a crack as they caught the air and shot upward again, side by side, beauty so incredible that she couldn’t breathe-
When the beauty of the moment was shattered by the thunk of a heavy crossbow firing, and a bolt streaking toward Hydona.
Dawnfire was watching the female at the moment that the broad-bladed bolt ripped through the air, changing its arc to meet the wing and shred it.
The female screamed as the wing collapsed; the uninjured wing flailed wildly as she fell in a barely-controlled spiral towards the ground.
The male’s scream of rage echoed his mate’s scream of pain; he did a wing-over and turned his climb into a killing dive, claws extended, as he followed his mate down.
The female crashed into the trees at the edge of the forest and was lost to sight; the male followed an eyeblink behind her.
Then a sudden flare of light from beneath the trees enveloped him in a tongue of white flame; he screamed again, but this time in pain, not in rage. The light held him suspended for a moment, as he went limp. Then he simply dropped, unconscious, through the leafy roof of the forest.
All that saved him from a broken neck was the fact that it was a relatively short drop.
Anger filled her, white-hot anger, and the urge to kill.
Without stopping to think, Dawnfire sent Kyrr in a near-vertical stoop down after them; Kyrr’s instinct was to shriek with rage, but Dawnfire clenched the hawk’s beak shut. No point in warning whoever it was that had perpetrated this—outrage.
As she dove through the branches, snaking through the obstacle course with desperate adjustments of her wings, Kyrr’s blood boiled with rage. It was all that Dawnfire could do to keep her under control and quiet. The bondbird wanted blood, she wanted it now, and she wasn’t going to accept less.
:Kill!: she shrilled in Dawnfire’s mind. :Kill them all!:
Dawnfire gritted mental teeth, and held to her tenuous control as they penetrated the last of the branches and broke out into the clear air beneath the forest canopy. If I lose her now, I lose her for all time. I’ll never be able to control her in a rage again—
There were two men with the unconscious gryphons; she saw that in a moment. One, the one with the crossbow, was standing guard over the unconscious male who lay in a pathetic and boneless heap at his feet.
The other was beside the female, who was, at least, semiconscious. He was unarmed, dressed in close-fitting leather—and he was without a doubt a mage, one of the Others, who had manipulated himself into a form that was scarcely more than half human.
And he was doing something to the female gryphon.
Dawnfire barely had time to take that all in; at that moment, the female gryphon sent up a shriek of heart-rending agony. The scream goaded Kyrr into a rage that tore her loose from Dawnfire’s control.
Not that it mattered, because Dawnfire herself was so angered that she released control to Kyrr, to give her all the edge she needed.
Screaming outrage, they dove together in a full-scale attack, claws extended and aimed for the mage’s eyes.
He looked up—
And his eyes were all Dawnfire could see—just before something slammed into her, and darkness swallowed her. His eyes—his slitted eyes....
And his hate-filled, sharp-toothed smile....
Chapter Sixteen
ELSPETH
Elspeth swore silently as she caught a familiar profile out of the corner of her eye. Skif was following her again.
The turbaned merchant implored her to examine the clever workmanship of the leather pouch she was holding, conveying grief that his profit margin had already been slashed to nothing. Elspeth lingered over her purchase, haggling a few more coppers off the price of the belt-pouch, as she watched Skif ghosting around the edge of the crowd, keeping an eye on her. He was very good; it was unlikely that anyone around her realized that he was shadowing her. In a bazaar full of foreigners of all shapes, sizes and costumes, neither of them stood out from the crowd. Trade season was at its height, and the crowds of small traders, mercs, and the occasional pleasure traveler filled the aisles between the tent-booths. It was not the easiest thing to spot Skif as he skillfully used the crowds to cover his movements, but he had trained her, and she knew his moves better than anyone else could.
It was just a good thing that she was conscientious enough to keep her own watch out for other followers. He could easily be distracting her enough to put her at hazard.
The scent of fine leather rose from the pouch in her hands as she pretended to examine it further. The merchant swore she was impoverishing him.
This was getting annoying. No, it had gotten annoying already. She had begun to lose her patience with him.
Twice now, she had gotten close to someone who had hinted he might know a Shin‘a’in or two—and twice, it had come to nothing. The Clansmen were proving incredibly elusive.
“Alas, you should have been here in the spring,” said the folk in the fabric bazaar. “They are only here in the spring. But I have some fine Shin‘a’in rugs, and you couldn’t get a better bargain on them from a Clansman herself....”
“Oh, you should wait until the fall,” said the horse traders. “They never come here except in the fall. Now, I have some outstanding Shin‘a’in saddle mares....”
“Well, they were just here,” said the shepherds, in a dialect so thick she could scarcely make out what they were saying. “Tale‘sedrin, you say? That’s the blonds, no? Ah, you just missed them; here last week, they were, buying up them new long-haired goats.”
Here last week, here last season, not here yet—the herders were the closest she had gotten; at least they knew that Kero’s Clan had a number of blond members, legacy of Kero’s grandmother Kethry.
But the Shin‘a’in were proving horribly hard to find. It seemed that no matter where she went, they had either been and gone, or they had not yet appeared.
“Cakes yesterday, cakes tomorrow, but never cakes today,” she muttered to herself, keeping one eye on Skif as she paid for the leather pouch and attached it to her belt. Clever pouch; well worth having, with a catch designed to foil pickpockets, and a belt loop with woven wire glued between two layers of leather, to outwit cut-purses.
Well, she wasn’t going to get anywhere today. The leather market was as empty of contacts as any other. It was time to try something else.
But before she did that, she was going to have to deal with Skif. Before he drove her to give him a bloody nose.
The crowds hadn’t thinned any; sometimes she wondered what they were all doing her
e, they couldn’t all be selling to each other, or there wouldn’t be anyone in the booths. But there were smaller merchants who had no booths, picking up bargains for the luxury trade; there were plenty of people who seemed to be here just to shop and enjoy themselves. Kata‘shin’a‘in seemed to provide a kind of ongoing Fair that lasted for months. The security provided by the discreet bazaar guards encouraged folk to wear their finery and indulge themselves. She headed back to the inn with her other purchases, fruit and cheese and fresh bread, in a string bag at her side. She moved through the crowd briskly, at a fast walk, taking Skif by surprise so that she managed to lose him around a corner.
Well, while he had been busy following her, she had been paying attention to the layout of the bazaar. She took a shortcut through the saddlers, coming out in the midst of the rug sellers; from there it was a another skip across to the food vendors. She stopped just long enough to buy a parchment bag full of sugared fried cakes; her nose caught the scent and she discovered she couldn’t resist the rich, sweet odor. Then she cut down the aisle of the scent sellers and from there, she strolled directly into the inn.
She unlocked the door of their room; and as she had expected, she had beaten him back. Since he was supposed to have been taking a nap—
:I wish you’d take me with you,: Need said querulously, from beneath the bed. :It may be just a bazaar, but you know very well there are people who are out there looking for you.:
Wonderful. Another mother hen. “I can’t take you with me,” she said, trying to keep her patience intact. “It’s bazaar rules; no long weapons in the bazaar, nothing longer than a knife, unless it’s a purchase, and then it has to be wrapped up.”
:You could carry me wrapped,: the blade suggested hopefully. :There wouldn’t be any problem then.:
“Then you’d do me about as much good as a stick,” she snorted. “Less; you’re not much good as a stick, you’re too awkward and not long enough.”
Before the sword could retort, there was a sound of a key in the door, and it opened as soon as the lock disengaged.
“Welcome back,” she said dryly.
“Uh. Hello,” Skif said, first startled, then sheepish.
“I suppose you couldn’t sleep, hmm?” She put her purchases on the rickety little table that was supplied with the room. “You know, there’s a little story I’ve been meaning to tell you—I wonder if you’ve ever heard it? It’s about Herald Rana and her old suitor from home.”
He shook his head, baffled.
:You’re a cruel child,: said Gwena.
:I’m getting tired of this,: she replied.
“Herald Rana went back home for a visit last year, and a young man who wouldn’t give her a second glance back when she was the cheesemaker’s daughter decided that she was the most wonderful woman he’d ever seen.” She shrugged. “It might have been the Whites, it might have been that she’d matured quite a bit since the last time he saw her. It really doesn’t matter. He followed her back to Haven and then out on her circuit. He got to be such a nuisance that she decided to do something about him. So the next time he came up behind her in a market and put his arms around her, she put him to the ground.” She raised one eyebrow at him. “That wasn’t enough for him, apparently, because he kept following her, but at a distance. So she waited until he followed her out into the forest when she went to hunt a little fresh meat.”
She paused, significantly.
“Well?” Skif finally responded.
“She ambushed him and planted an arrow right between his legs. I’m given to understand that she came close enough to his assets to shave them.”
Skif gulped.
“I trust you take my point.” She turned away from him, drew her knife, and lopped off the tip of the cheese roll with an obvious enthusiasm that made him wince. She stabbed the piece and offered it to him. He declined.
:You are a very cruel child.: Gwena sounded more amused than accusatory.
:Very practical,: Need retorted, with a chuckle.
:Very weary,: she replied to both of them. And took the cheese herself. Let’s hope he gets the point—before I have to give it to him.:
The sword and Gwna joined in laughter. :Oh, I think he did,: Gwena chuckled. :I’ll have a talk with Cymry and see if she can’t have a word with him.:
:She’d better do something,: Elspeth replied grimly. :Or I will. And this time, Herald or not, I’ll be more direct.:
Priests and other religious travelers had their own special camping ground reserved for them away from the bazaar, on top of a rise. Shaman Kra‘heera shena Tale’sedrin looked out over the crowded tents of the bazaar from his vantage point above it and smiled a little. Somewhere down there was a young woman, accompanied by a tall young man, who was looking for them.
Not them, specifically. Just the Tale‘sedrin. Since he and Tre’valen had arrived late this afternoon, no less than four traders had come strolling up to their tent with the casually proffered information that someone was looking for Tale‘sedrin.
To each of those four, Kra‘heera had said nothing. He had simply gone about his business of raising their tent. His apprentice, Tre’valen, had thanked them politely, but when he had shown no further interest in the subject, the four had strolled onward, ostensibly to visit some other tent dweller farther on. But Kra‘heera read the set of their shoulders, and knew that they went away disappointed because he had not been interested in buying the rest of their information. There was as much traffic in information in the bazaars of Kata’shin‘a’in as there was in material goods.
He had not bought their intelligence because he did not need to. And he let them know by his manner, since they were no fools, that he had his own ways of information. Reinforcing the shamans’ reputation for uncanny, timely knowledge never hurt.
As sunset touched the tops of the tents with a sanguine glow, another visitor reached the encampment of the Shin‘a’in, but this visitor had no interest in selling her information. Not to folk of the People of the Plains; not when her own son rode with them, adopted into the Clan of Tale‘sedrin by marriage.
This scarlet-clad visitor was welcomed within the newly-pitched tent with jokes and news; the brazier was fired for her, and cakes and sweet tea were offered and accepted. And when all the civilized amenities were completed, and only then, did rug seller Dira Crimson say what she came to say.
She, Kra‘heera, and Tre’valen sat comfortably on overstuffed cushions, placed on a carpet any of the rug traders would have offered their firstborn offspring for. “There is a girl,” the woman said, her plump, weathered face crinkling with a smile as she arranged the folds of her scarlet skirt about her feet. “She is a stranger, and speaks with an accent that I would not know, had I not journeyed once into Valdemar with the Clan—where we had much profit, the gods be praised.”
Kra‘heera’s lips curled up in his own smile, and he filled her cup with more tea. “I think that the gods had less to do with that than your own wit and fine goods, trade-sister.”
She waved the suggestion aside. “Na, na, one does one’s best, and the gods decree the rest. So. There is a girl. There is a young man with her. She looks for Tale‘sedrin. He watches her with the eyes of a young dog with his first bitch.”
Kra‘heera laughed at the old woman’s simile. There was no repressing Dira; she told things as she saw them, and if anyone objected, why, she felt they need not listen.
“Young men are ever thus. What of this girl of Valdemar, who seeks the Children of the Hawk?” he asked.
“Well, it is said that she comes from Kerowyn, on whom be peace and profit, if such a thing is possible for one whose livelihood is by the sword. It is said that she bears the mage-sword given her from the hand of Kerowyn as a token of this.” The old woman’s black eyes peered at him sharply, from within a nest of wrinkles. “This is the sword of Clan-Mother Kethryveris, the blade called ‘Need.’ ”
“It is said?” Kra‘heera pondered the information. “You have seen this?�
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Dira shook her head. “No, not with my own eyes. Nor have I heard her claim this with my own ears. I have spoken with her but briefly, a few words at most. She seems honest. That is all I can say.”
Kra‘heera nodded, and Dira smiled her satisfaction. No Shin’a‘in ever moved on purely hearsay evidence. No Shin’a‘in dared move on hearsay. But Dira had reported what she knew, and Kra’heera would not be caught by surprise.
The last of the light faded, and Tre‘valen lit the scarlet lamps that marked the tent as priestly and not to be disturbed. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Dira took herself back to her own tent, somewhere in the labyrinthine recesses of the rug seller’s bazaar.
Kra‘heera nodded to his apprentice to take her place beside the brazier. The elder shaman sat in thought while his apprentice seated himself. “Will you do nothing about this Outlander?” Tre’valen wondered aloud. “Will you seek her out?”
“Perhaps.” Kra‘heera studied the bottom of his paper-thin porcelain teacup. “Perhaps. She may be of some use to us, whether she speaks the truth or no. But we have a more urgent appointment, you and I.”
“We do?” Tre‘valen asked, surprised, his black brows arching upwards in surprise. Tre’valen was one of the pure-blood Shin‘a’in—by no means the majority among the mixed-blood Clan of Tale‘sedrin. His ice-blue eyes were startling to an outsider, set beneath his raven-black hair, in an angular, golden-skinned face.
“Surely you did not think that we came riding over the Plains in the heat of summer for the pleasure of it?” Kra‘heera responded wryly. “If that is so, you have an odd notion of pleasure.”
Tre‘valen flushed a little but held his tongue. Kra’heera’s wit sometimes tended to the acidic, but his apprentices had to grow used to it. That was part of becoming a shaman; to be able to face any temperament with calm.
“We go out now,” Kra‘heera announced, standing up from his cross-legged position with an ease many younger men would envy. That took Tre’valen by surprise; the apprentice scrambled to his feet awkwardly, just in time to follow his superior out into the night. To Kra‘heera’s veiled amusement, Tre’valen first turned toward the bazaar, and only altered his steps when he realized that the shaman was heading into the Old City.
Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Page 29