Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Then the last—and greatest—cause for rage. The gryphons,

  Oh, the gryphons. Creatures that he had thought long gone. Returning to these lands, after all these many centuries. Returning to live here once again. Returning to the home of Skandranon....

  The gryphons. My hated ancient adversaries. Something very... special... for them.

  He brooded in the hot darkness of his study, and never quite knew the moment when his brooding slipped over the edge into dreaming.

  He watched himself through other eyes and knew that he was An'desha shena Jor'ethan, Shin'a'in of the Clan of the Bear, an offshoot of Wolf-Clan. A young almost-man, in his early teens. He stood on the edge of all that he had known, and shivered.

  He was not yet a warrior, this youngling of the Plains. Only—he was Shin'a'in no more. He could no longer hold place in the Clans, for he had the power of magic, and yet he had not joined the shamans. The Goddess had declared that no one but Her shamans could work magics within the bowl of the Plains, for the task of the Shin'a'in was to keep magic from their homeland. He had felt no calling for such a life-task, and no liking for it, either.

  For such a one, one with the gift of magery, yet unwilling to go to Her hands, there was only one choice. Exile, to the Kin-Cousins, the Tale'edras, the Hawkbrothers. They had magic; they were permitted—nay, encouraged—by the Goddess to use it. They would freely adopt any of their magic-bearing Kindred into their ranks, so it was said, to teach the use of such a gift.

  So he had come, to the edge of Hawkbrother lands. Yet he had come without the knowledge of the rest of his kin, nor the guidance of the shaman, for no one else in his Clan knew of this secret power. He had feared to disclose it, for he was not a strong-willed young man, and he knew only too well what such a disclosure would bring to his lot.

  And now, as he stood in the silent forest, he wondered. Should he have confided in Vor'kela, the shaman? Should he have confessed his fatal gift before the rest of the Clan? Should he not have claimed his rights, and been given guidance to the nearest of the Tale'edras?

  Yet even as he wondered, he knew that he could not have born the weight of Vor'kela's insistence that he take up the shaman's staff and drum. No one in all of the Clan would have been willing to let him go to the Kin-Cousins without great outcry and argument. There would have been those who said that his gift was unclean, and the result of his father's liaison with the Outlands woman at Kata'shin'a'in, even as he was the result of that liaison. There would have been those who would have said he should take vows of celibacy, that this gift not be passed to others of the Clan. There would not have been a single one of his Kin willing to let him pass out of their hands without long argument and contention.

  And he—he would have folded beneath the weight of their words. He would have taken up a place at the shaman's side. And there he would have been utterly miserable. He trembled at the thought of all the years of sacrifice the place as shaman's apprentice would cost him. He was revolted at the idea of being forced to serve at Vor'kela's side and bear the brunt of the shaman's humor.

  Better that he had done what he had done; to creep away in the dead of night, and seek out a new life among the Kin-Cousins. He had taken only what was his by right. He had violated no laws.

  Because of this, he had no guide. He had never been outside the Plains. As he stood at the top of the path that led from the bottom of the great bowl of the Plains to the top of the rim, he wondered at the forest before him. Huge trees, more trees than he had ever seen in his life, towered before him, and marched endlessly to the horizon. Only there was no horizon, only trees, trees, endlessly trees.

  Trees were a rarity on the Plains, and never grew to the height of these. He could not see their tops, only their interweaving branches.

  Trees that bent over him, as if watching. Trees that murmured on all sides of him, as if whispering. Trees that had a secret life of their own.

  With a bravery born of desperation, he shouldered his pack—for he had left his horse at the base of the path, to find her way back to the Clan—and marched into the cool shadow of the endless trees. Always he had heard how jealously the Hawkbrothers guarded their lands. Surely he would be found and challenged before long.

  Before midday, he was lost. By nightfall, he was lost, cold, and terribly afraid. He had heard all too many tales of the strange beasts that lived beneath these trees—the beasts that the Tale'edras fought and penned. Strange mage-created creatures that no arrow could harm. Beasts with the cunning minds of men. He knew none of the sounds of the forest around him; he could not tell if they were the voices of harmless things, or terrible predators, or even demon-spawn.

  If only he had a fire—but he had left his fire-making took behind, for they did not belong to him only, but to all of his family. He was so cold—and all men knew that true beasts feared fire. If he had afire, it would shine through the darkness of this forest like a beacon, drawing the Tale'edras to him. If only he had afire....

  But wait—had he not heard that a mage could call fire? Even so untutored a one such as himself? He knew where the currents of power ran; he felt them beneath his very feet. He had felt them, even stronger and wilder, on the Plains. Why could he not use them to bring a spark to waiting tinder?

  No sooner thought, than he hurried about in the gathering gloom, scraping a dirt hollow in the moss, gathering twigs, dried pine-needles, bits of dry bark; laying larger branches close to hand. When he had his tinder going, he would soon have his fire built as high as he needed.

  He closed his eyes, reached for the power, and thought of the springing flames—

  And got what he had not expected.

  YES!

  He came with a roar, filling the boy's body, thundering out of his hiding place, into the body of the blood of his blood, his coming triggered by the moment of Fire-Calling. As it had always been. Once again he took and lived. From the time when Ma'ar, Mage of Dark Flames, had fought and conquered Urtho and had learned of a way to preserve himself down through the ages....

  Using the power of the death of his body to hide himself in a tiny pocket of the nothingness between the Gates, he preserved his own person, sealed himself there with spell upon carefully-wrought spell. And when one with a trace of the blood of great Ma'ar in his veins learned to make Fire, he came, and overwhelmed the boy's fledgling personality with his own. So he lived again. And when the time came for the death of that body, he moved again into hiding....

  Hiding to live again.

  So it had gone, down through the centuries, taking new bodies and taking on other names. Krawlven. Renthorn. Geslaken. Leareth. Zendak.

  And now, a new rebirth, a new body, a new name. As the young spirit struggled beneath his talons with fear and hopelessness, as the spirit grew quiet, then disappeared altogether, he baptized himself in the blood and flesh of a new incarnation.

  Mornelithe. I am Mornelithe! And I live again!

  The sound of his laughter rang beneath the branches of the pines, and shocked the forest into sudden stillness.

  Then he gathered his powers about himself and vanished into the night, to build his empire anew.

  Mornelithe woke with a sudden start. He had not thought of that moment in... decades. Why now?

  And why had he first felt the long-vanished spirit of the Horse-Loving halfbreed whose body he had taken?

  Never mind, he told himself impatiently. It matters not at all. Or if it matters, it was to remind myself that I have lived more lives than this, and I am surely wiser for all of that living. And stronger. Wiser by far than the Bird-Fools. It is the gryphons that should concern me. The gryphons, K'Sheyna. Nyara.

  He stretched and sat up on his couch. Discontent weighted his shoulders like a too-heavy garment. In the days that he was Ma'ar, he would merely have had to stretch out his hand to have them all—

  But the power that was so rich and free in his day as Ma'ar was a poor thing now. Shattered and scattered, dust in the storm. Like his power,
his empire was a small thing, He was constrained to harbor allies he would never have suffered in the old days.

  For a moment, he felt a kind of shame, that he should be reduced to this meager existence. Yet what had worked in the long-ago days could work now, if only on a smaller scale.

  The gryphons. The gryphons. Why is it that they do not fade, but prosper? In his mind's eye the male gryphon took on the black-dyed elegance of Skandranon, and his lip lifted in a snarl. There was no mistaking the beast's lineage. And I that should not have been. The gryphons of Urtho's pride I should not have survived him.

  Nor should those too-faithful servants, the beast-breeding Kaled'a'in. They should have perished, they should all have perished in the cataclysm that destroyed his kingdom and Urtho's. There should have been nothing left but a pair of smoking holes. Every trace of Urtho's handiwork and Urtho's allies should have been erased for all time.

  Yet, here they were. The Kaled'a'in, Urtho's faithful servants, still prancing about in the guise of the Bird-Fools and the Horse-Lovers. Sundered, yet still prospering. Half of them guarding what remained of the old magics, half of them removing the scars and taint of the destruction. Both halves working beneath the eye of that wretched Goddess who took so deep an interest in their doings.

  And the gryphons—thriving! Clearly established in the west, and moving eastward!

  How? How did this happen?

  He flung himself off of his couch, and began to pace the room, like a restless, caged lion. He had been brooding here for too long. He needed to act! He needed to stir his blood, to exact some token of vengeance before his followers lost their fear and began to desert him.

  He needed a show of strength that would convince them that he was still as all-powerful as ever. And he needed the sweet taste of revenge to completely heal him.

  Nyara. She was the weakest, the most vulnerable—and the most personal target. Yet she was inexplicably out of his reach. He had sought for her ever since he returned to his stronghold, and yet it had been in vain. He searched as far as his strength was able to take him. There was no trace of her.

  Or rather—something was hiding her. He would have known if she had perished, for the power he had invested in her would have come rushing back to him. There was someone, or some power, hiding her.

  K'Sheyna, perhaps?

  A possible, if surprising, thought. He had thought the Bird-Fools of k'Sheyna too bound up by long custom to change. Could the Bird-Lovers have lost their hatred of Changechildren enough to shelter her? Was it possible?

  After the way she had fought at cursed Darkwind's side—after the way that she had defended the gryphons—yes. It was possible. In fact, now that he gave it consideration, it was likely.

  The gryphons—

  The target he longed to strike.

  No, the time was not right to exact his revenge upon them. Besides, they too lay under the shelter of k'Sheyna. He might ambush them, but he had no major mages at his disposal now. The last of them had vanished during a hunt for spell-components. He would have to go in person to deal the blow. That was too risky; there was too much he did not know about them.

  That left—k'Sheyna.

  The most logical choice, if he was to impress his followers with his still-vital power.

  He would have to do something to hurt the Clan, and hurt it badly. But it would have to be something swift and decisive, and something they had not guarded themselves against.

  If he struck at the Clan, his followers would see that he was strong again, and fear to desert him. In striking at the Clan, he might persuade the Bird-Fools to give up the shelter of all those not of their blood. If he were clever enough, he could make it look as if the blow had come through them. K'Sheyna would never shelter them, then. That would put not only Nyara within his reach, but the Outlanders and the gryphons.

  The gryphons.

  Yes, then he would gather in his dearest daughter—and her winged friends....

  And the Outlanders as well, the strange ones. The girl, now—she had all the potential for an Adept. When he saw her last, she had but the most rudimentary of tutelage. It was unlikely anyone in k'Sheyna could be persuaded to give her lessons, and the half-taught were the most vulnerable. He would need a plaything when Nyara was dead.

  Yes, he would slay the Outland man, but keep the Outland woman. She might do well to carry his seed for the next generation, since Nyara had proved barren, and turned traitor in the bargain. He might even make the transfer without waiting for the death of his body. Yes. That was a good plan. An excellent plan. It would be good to have a young, strong body again, full of vigor and energy.

  That left only one question to be answered.

  If I am to hurt k'Sheyna, where must I strike?

  His lips twisted in a feral smile.

  Where else, but at the weakest bird in the flock, the broken-winged, broken-souled Starblade? He will no longer be mewed up away from my power. They surely think me dead. They must be getting very careless at this point.

  An attack on Starblade in and of itself would not hurt the Clan as a whole. But if he used Starblade's link to the Heartstone, and completed the work that he had begun there—

  Yes, if I shatter the Heartstone—it might not destroy everything in the Vale, but it will surely destroy most of what is important, and at least half of the mages will die in the backlash of power.

  It went against the grain to loose all that power.

  But if I cannot control it, then I shall destroy with it.

  If he were truly fortunate—although his revenge would be a little less—the gryphons would be destroyed with the rest.

  Or better, far better, the gryphons would be hurt when the Stone shattered completely. Leaving them weak, and vulnerable.

  Yes, that would be the best of all.

  He flung himself back down upon his couch, chewed the last pain-spiced flesh from a former servant's thighbone, and began to plan.

  Firesong deemed most of the Vale too near the Heartstone to work in, and although Darkwind agreed with him, this tiny clearing at the far end was a damned awkward spot to get to. It had been made as a try sting-spot, but had gotten overgrown. To reach it, they had to wind their way through tangles of vines and bushes, only to discover when they got there that most of the clearing itself had been eaten up by encroaching vegetation. "So, clear it." Firesong said casually, and sat down on a stone to await the completion of their task. Darkwind seethed with resentment that he held closely, permitting none of it to slip. He had thought that Elspeth tested his temper; he had never thought that one of his own people would bring it so close to the snapping point.

  Except, perhaps, his father.

  The Adept did not even watch them; he called in his snow-white firebird and fed it flowers and bits of fruit while they worked, clearing the vegetation by hand since using magic would have been fairly stupid for so simple a task. "Good enough," Firesong said at last, when the earth of the clearing had been laid bare, and all the seats were free of vines and overhanging bushes. "Now, we return to basics. Darkwind, you will tap into the ley-line beneath us."

  Back to basics? For what? Or doesn't he trust our training?

  "Stop," Firesong said, with calm self-assurance, as Darkwind obeyed him; he grounded himself carefully, centered his personal power, and prepared himself to grasp for the power of the ley-lines. "What are you doing?"

  "I am grounding myself," Darkwind told him, not adding, as any fool could see, for it was obvious that Firesong had some deeper intention in mind. Sunlight trickled through the leaves above them, making patches of brilliance in the Adept's hair. This morning Firesong wore blue, the same blue as his eyes. He looked good enough to have his will of any female in the Vale, and no few of the males.

  "Why?" the Healing Adept asked, flicking his hair over his shoulder with one hand. "Why are you grounding yourself and your shields?"

  "Because—because that is the way that I was taught. That—" he groped after long-forgotte
n lessons "—if I am not grounded when I reach for the ley-line power, it will fling me away by the force of its current." His resentment I continued to seethe at being forced to dredge up those long-ago lessons. What difference did it make? It was something you did.

  "All well and good," Firesong replied, with that same maddening calm, and a smile that said volumes. "But what if you release your ground after you have the power? What, then? And why must you always sink your ground into the earth below you? Why not elsewhere?"

  Darkwind only gaped at him, unable to answer questions that ran counter to everything he had ever been taught.

  "I will show you." The young Adept centered and grounded faster than Darkwind could blink; seized upon the ley-line beneath them as if he owned the deed to it. He made the energies his own, feeding them into his shields with an ease that called up raw envy in Darkwind's heart.

  Then cast loose the ground. "Now, strike me. Full force, Darkwind, trust me." The shields stayed where they were, contrary to everything Darkwind supposed would happen.

  Darkwind struck—with more force than he had consciously intended, all of his spent-up frustration going into the blow. All of his fury and bruised pride combined to make the blow one that would have done harm if it had properly connected. It should have completely shattered Firesong's shields, the outer one, at least.

  But instead of meeting the blow, the shields, no longer anchored by the ground, slid aside. Darkwind watched in complete shock as his angry blast did no more than to bow the shields slightly. The energy of his strike was neither absorbed, nor reflected; it was deflected, routed around the outside, skittering away in bright eddies of flame. Nothing touched the mage inside.

  "This is dangerous, cousin," Firesong warned, smugly cradled within his untouched shields. "A clever mage will see at once that without the ground protecting the essential flow of magic energy from the line to myself, that tie is vulnerable. A clever mage could also force the shields toward me, then instead of striking a blow, could lance through them at the nearest, thinnest, weakest point. But until he does that, I sit untouched, allowing all his force to spend itself uselessly. I need not even fear the contamination of his magic, for it never touches me or my shields."