That was what Treyvan had meant by "you will know;" when he and Hydona flew to mate for their second clutch, any mage nearby would know very well that a spell with sexual potency was being woven.
The last time they'd risen, he'd been fourteen, and just discovering the wonders of Girls. Fortunately he had been alone, and there had been no Girls within reach....
The offspring of that mating were six or seven years old now, fledged, but not flying yet, and still sub-adult.
Pretty little things, he thought to himself, with a chuckle, though the term "little" was relative. They were bigger and stronger than he was. At fourteen he'd already acquired Vree, and the appearance of the gryphlets hadn't appalled him the way it might have. Vree had looked much scrawnier and—well—awful, right out of the egg. Lytha and Jerven were born alive, and with a reasonable set of fluff-feathers and fur—and Treyvan hadn't let him see them until their second or third day, when their eyes were open and they didn't look quite so unfinished.
The gryphons' nest was very like an ekele, but on the ground, presumably to keep the flightless gryphlets from breaking their necks. The pair had created quite an impressive shelter from stone blocks, cleverly woven vegetation, and carefully fitted logs.
As Darkwind neared it, he realized that it was bigger than it had been; it wasn't until he got close enough to measure it by eye that the difference was apparent. From without it looked almost like a tent made of stone and thatch, with a roof quite thick enough to keep out any kind of weather; it looked very much as if the gryphons had dismantled and rebuilt it, keeping the same shape with an increase in size.
He glanced in the door as Treyvan turned, a look of proprietary pride on his expressive face. Obviously he was waiting for a compliment. Inside, there were three chambers now, instead of the two Darkwind remembered; the fledglings', the adults', and a barren one, which would probably be the new nursery. The other two were basically large nests, piled deep with fragrant grasses that the pair had gathered down on the Plain, and changed periodically.
Treyvan's neck curved gracefully, and he faced his human friend eye to golden eye. "Well?" he demanded. "Whaaat do you think?"
"I think it's magnificent," Darkwind replied warmly—which was all he had time for, as the gryphlets heard and recognized his voice, and came tumbling out of their chamber in a ball of squealing fur-and-feathers. Darkwind was their favorite playmate—or plaything, sometimes he wasn't entirely certain which. But he'd used Treyvan and his mate the same way as a child, so turnabout only seemed fair.
Mostly... they tried to be careful, but they didn't always know their own strength—and they were very young. Sometimes they forgot just how long and sharp their claws and beaks were.
They hit him together, Lytha high, Jerven low, and brought him down, both shrieking in the high-pitched whistles that served the gryphons for howls of laughter.
Darkwind tried not to wince, but those whistles were enough to pierce his eardrums. I'll be glad when their voices deepen. Human children are shrill enough as it is....
Lytha grabbed the front of his tunic in her beak and "worried" it; Jerven "gnawed" his ankle. He struggled; at least they were big enough now that he didn't have to watch what he did; he could fight against them in earnest and not hurt them, provided he didn't indulge in any real, killing blows. They seemed to have improved in their "playing" since the last time; he'd needed a new tunic when Jerven got through with him. Treyvan watched them maul him indulgently for a moment, then waded in, gently separating his offspring from his friend, batting at them so that they rolled into the far corners of the chamber, shrieking happily.
Darkwind did wince.
Treyvan whistled something at them; they bounced to their feet and bounded out the door. Darkwind still wasn't fluent in Gryphon, it was a very tonal language, and hard to master; but he thought it was probably the equivalent of "Go play, Darkwind needs to talk to Mother and Father about things that will bore you to sleep."
Treyvan shook his head, then turned, and settled himself into a graceful reclining curve, with his serrated, meat-rending bill even with Darkwind's chin, bare inches away, gazing into the human's face. "Your indulgenssss, old friend. They aaare veeeery young."
"I know," he replied, picking himself up off the floor, and dusting himself off. "I distinctly remember doing the same thing to you."
Treyvan's beak opened in a silent laugh. "Aaaah, but I wassss ssstill thissss ssssize, and you were much ssssmaller, yesss? The damagesss were much lessss."
"I think I'll survive them," Darkwind responded. "And I owe you both for more than just being gracious about playing 'monster' for me."
Treyvan shook his head. "Weee do not think of sssssuch," he said immediately. "Thissss issss what friendssss do."
Darkwind remained stubbornly silent for a moment. "Whether or not you think of it, I do," he said. "You two helped me cope with Mother's death; you've been mother and father to me since. It's not something I can forget."
The memory was still painful, but he thought it was healing. It certainly wouldn't have without their help.
"Sssstill," Treyvan objected. "You are uncle to the little onesss. At consssiderable perssonal damage."
He shrugged. "To quote your own words," he replied wryly, "'that's what friends do.' I think they're well worth indulging. So, you've obviously enlarged the nest—and it's wonderful, the new chamber doesn't look tacked-on, it looks like it was built with the original. What else are you planning to do?"
"We thought, perhapsssss, a chamber for the younglingssss to play in foul weather—"
They discussed further improvements for a moment until a shadow passed over Darkwind, and he looked up at the sound of his name whistled in Gryphon—
Then once again, he had to protect his eyes, as Hydona, Treyvan's mate, landed in the clearing before the nest, driving up a stronger wind with her wings than Treyvan had.
Darkwind rose to his feet to greet her. She was larger than Treyvan, and her dusty-brown coloration was a muted copy of his golden-brown feathers. There was more gray in her markings, and less black. Her eyes were the same warm, lovely gold as Treyvan's, though, and she was just as pleased to see him as her mate had been.
She nuzzled him and gripped a shoulder gently, purring loud enough to vibrate his very bones. He buried his hands in her neck-feathers and scratched the place at the back of her neck she could never reach herself; the most intimate caress possible to a gryphon, short of mating behavior. She and Treyvan had been extraordinarily open with him, especially after the death of his mother, allowing him glimpses of their personal life that most humans were never allowed to see. They were, all in all, quite private creatures; of all the Tayledras, only Darkwind was considered an intimate friend. They had not even allowed Dawnfire, who was possibly the best of all the k'Sheyna at dealing with nonhumans, to come that close to them.
"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.
Ana 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.
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