Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Starblade could only shrug. "I am not a shaman," he pointed out. "You are. I say only—be careful and consider first what is best for Dawnfire and those you have sworn to serve."

  "I shall." Tre'valen stood, and moved toward the door. "I will keep you closely informed from this moment of what I see. And—of what I feel."

  He bowed, turned, and descended the stairs quickly, but the air of trouble he had brought with him remained. Kethra held Starblade's hands wordlessly for a long time afterward.

  Darkwind tossed his head, and sent his soaking-wet hair whipping over his shoulder. Sweat poured down his forehead and stung his eyes, but external vision did not matter. Internal vision did.

  No matter that he had picked a quarrel with Elspeth not half a candlemark before they joined Firesong in the glade that he had made into their Working Place. No matter that I he had left her without a reply to the hurtful words he had not truly meant, but said anyway. Once across the invisible I boundary, he and Elspeth were two halves of a working whole, and there was no quarrel dividing them.

  He frankly had not expected that of her. He had been faintly surprised when her power joined to his with no hesitation. But he could not be less than she, his pride would not permit it.

  But he wondered, in a tiny, unoccupied section of his mind, if he had deliberately quarreled with her in hopes that she would storm off, making it impossible for them to practice with Firesong driving them?

  Firesong lived up to his use-name; his power-signature crackled with illusory flames, and he used music, drumbeats, to focus it. That made it easier, rather than harder, for Darkwind to follow him; all of his training as a dancer came to the fore, guiding him where he might otherwise I have stumbled blindly. So Darkwind had gone Firesong one better; now in the circle he danced his magic, eyes closed, moving in place.

  I am going to be much leaner before this is all over... and a better dancer.

  Elspeth, interestingly enough, chose to follow his dancing with a manifestation of power he had heard of, but had never seen; lightweaving. She created patterns of energy that matched his dancing and Firesong's drums, uniting them, in a way that he didn't understand, but fit well.

  It seemed that Firesong didn't understand it either, for the first time Elspeth had woven her light-web he had been drilling them in the creation of a kind of containment vessel that was meant to contract down around something and hold it—

  Firesong had been startled and had lost the beat—Darkwind had seen only the pattern and danced it—and the web contracted around Firesong.

  The Adept had managed to extract himself from it before it closed convulsively and vanished with a little pop, but it had clearly been a near thing. They had afforded him a bit of a thrill. Ever since then he had guided them through a refinement of this technique; honing it down and making a weapon of it. Sometimes making a real weapon of it; Darkwind Felt something beginning to form before him. Firesong was about to create an enemy for them to face—a very real enemy, for all that it was made of mage-energy.

  He changed his steps, and Felt the light above him weaving into a protection. And he sensed Firesong's surprise. He guessed that Firesong had intended Elspeth to weave a mage-blade, or even two, for them to fight with. But Elspeth had her own ideas. Perhaps the weariness of his dance steps had told her that defense would be better than offense. Whatever; he followed the pattern she sketched, and the power wove about them into an hourglass-shaped flow, a double-lobed shield, and the fire-creature Firesong had conjured hissed about the outside in frustration, unable to burn a way through. Since the walls of energy flowed, it could not focus its flames on any one place long enough to do any significant damage; the lances of energy dissipated and swirled, but did not burn through.

  It sends out extensions of itself, as tongues of flame. Hmm. I think I can work with that.

  The next time the creature attacked, Darkwind changed his steps. The protection suddenly became "sticky," if energy could be sticky.

  An attractant, perhaps. Whatever the name of his defense might be, Darkwind caught the tongue of the creature's energy, and before Firesong had a chance to react, he spun the fire-shape into his shields, integrating it and making its power his.

  The drumming stopped; Darkwind danced on for a moment, letting the power return into the flow of the ley-line beneath them, rather than permitting it to drain away into the air to hang like lightning threatening to strike. Then he stopped and opened his eyes, to gaze somewhat defiantly at their instructor.

  "That was not at all a bad solution," Firesong said, calmly. "Not what I had in mind, but not at all bad."

  "Darkwind couldn't have fought that thing off," Elspeth said flatly, with no inflection at all. "He was already exhausted from everything else you'd sent at us today."

  "So you improvised a defense and solution in one; I like that." Firesong smiled at Elspeth, and Darkwind fought down a surge of irrational anger. "The Shin'a'in say—when you do not like the fight, change the rules. I have often found that to be a useful solution."

  Firesong looked no more weary than if he had just taken a fast walk across the Vale. Not a hair was out of place, nor a thread of clothing, for all of his furious drumming.

  I should have known. Perfect, as always.

  As Darkwind had anticipated, Firesong had been—very popular among the k'Sheyna, human and non. Power and beauty are both powerful attractants, and Firesong had both in abundance. He, in return, accepted the attentions as only his due—and his devotees seemed to find his very insolence appealing.

  Including Elspeth.

  And as for the hertasi—well, his borrowed ekele swarmed with them. He would not even have had to dress, feed, or bathe himself if he had chosen otherwise. Perhaps he hadn't.

  Now, Darkwind, your claws are showing.

  But how could he have gone through this past training session without a hair out of place?

  Because he's a greater mage, a greater Adept, than you or anyone in your Clan has ever seen, that's how. He's likely enhanced his endurance for year upon year. Elspeth and the rest are perfectly right to admire him. And there is nothing wrong with him being proud of himself and what he can do....

  "I think that you are near to ready," Firesong said, standing up, and putting the drum away in the elaborate padded chest he used as a seat. "You work remarkably well together. We can begin planning what we will be doing with your rogue Stone tomorrow, hmm?"

  Darkwind nodded, but Firesong wasn't done yet. Elspeth headed straight out of the clearing, going for the hot spring and a long soak, but Firesong caught Darkwind by the elbow before he had a chance to leave.

  "There is trouble between you and the Outlander," he said, making it a statement rather than a question. Darkwind couldn't meet his eyes, nor could he say anything. "There are also thorns between you and me."

  Darkwind faced him, resentment smoldering. "Nothing I cannot deal with," he said—keeping himself from snarling.

  Firesong gave him a most peculiar look as he retook his position on the padded chest. He crossed his legs and intertwined his slender fingers across one knee.

  Then he spoke.

  "Darkwind, I have been working magery since I was barely able to walk," the Adept said slowly. "My hair was white by the time I was ten. I have ever had a fearsome example to live up to, for my great-great-many-times-greatgrandfather was one Herald Vanyel Ashkevron out of Valdemar. Even as Elspeth's was, though she knows it not."

  "But—" Darkwind was surprised he managed to get that much out, stunned as he was,

  "—how?"

  "A long tale, which I shall make as short as I may." The Adept held up his hand, and his firebird came winging out of the tree cover above, a streak of white and gold lightning that alighted haughtily on his wrist. "This is the tradition, as it was handed down from Brightstar's foster-parents, Moondance and Starwind. One of k'Treva wished a child and there was no one in the Clan she favored. Moondance and Starwind also longed to be parents. Vanyel was wel
l favored by all within the Clan, and consented to be father to twins, one of whom was my forefather, Brightstar. But in Valdemar, also longing for a child, was the King's Own and lover of the Monarch, Shavri. Vanyel obliged her in part so that it would seem that Randale was able to father children, which he was not. That child, Jisa, wedded the next Monarch, Treven, a cousin of the King, and from that line of descent springs yon Outlander."

  Firesong chuckled at Darkwind's expression.

  I must look like a stunned ox.

  "Nay, cousin, we of k'Treva are not so well-versed in Outlander doings as you think. It is simply that Brightstar knew of his half-sister and her young suitor, and that the Ashkevron blood calls to blood; we know each other, though she does not know how." Now Firesong raised one wing-like eyebrow. "That may be the source of the Outlander's fascination with my humble self."

  Darkwind snorted. "As if you could ever be humble," he said sardonically.

  "It has happened a time or two, but not recently." Firesong shrugged, and transferred his firebird to his shoulder. "I thought a word to you was appropriate. I have much more training than you, more thorough, and more consistent. I have never abandoned my magic. Considering all you have—experienced—you do far better than I had expected. Take that for what it is worth. There is more I would say when the time is appropriate."

  He hung his head for a moment, then raised it again and brushed the moon-white hair from his forehead. Then he stood, an inscrutable expression on his face, and left by the trail Elspeth had taken, white-feathered firebird on his shoulder.

  I should at least apologize to her, if he is not with her, Darkwind thought, finally. Or even if he is with her... though I doubt I could.

  So eventually he, too, followed the pathway out of the clearing to the end of the Vale where Elspeth's ekele stood. He waited for a moment, listening at the entrance to the hot spring near her tree. There were splashing sounds; someone was definitely in there. There was no "in use" marker at the entrance....

  He hesitated a moment longer, then went in.

  For a moment he thought he had made a terrible mistake, for Elspeth was lying beside the pool, wrapped in a lounging robe, head was pressed against another, crowned with flowing white—

  :Oh, for Haven's sake, don't be more of a young fool than you are already,: Gwena snapped. He recognized, just before he backed out of the clearing, that it wasn't Firesong she was lying against, it was her Companion.

  "Do you—mind if I use the pool?" he said awkwardly. She propped herself up on one elbow and gave him a long, penetrating look.

  "I mind only if you plan on being as hateful as you were this morning," she said, levelly.

  "I didn't exactly plan on being hateful," he replied weakly. "It just happened."

  "Hmm," was all she said, and she laid herself back down again on the cushions.

  :If you don't mind, I'm going to leave you two alone,: Gwena said, getting gracefully to her feet. :I suggest whatever in the nine hells is bothering the two of you, that you get it dealt with before it shows up in the magic. That youngster and I agree on one thing, at least—that you'd better not bring your emotional upheavals into the reach of the Stone.:

  And with that, she melted into the undergrowth.

  Darkwind stripped hastily, and slipped into the water. Elspeth stayed where she was, neither moving nor talking. He finally decided to break the silence before he got a headache from it.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be nasty."

  "I'm sure you didn't," Elspeth replied. Then she turned on her side and met his eyes. "Something occurred to Gwena, and she pointed it out to me. You're getting a dose of what your brother gets all the time, did you realize that?"

  "What?" he said cleverly. "Wintermoon?"

  "Certainly." Elspeth turned over onto her stomach, and pillowed her head on her arms. "Think about it. You were always the Adept, the one with all the power. The one who had anything he wanted, from Starblade's approval to his pick of lovers in the Clan. He was a lowly scout, no magic, and in a position of risk, so that even if someone had considered getting close to him, they were afraid to because he was as likely to die as return every patrol. Even when you gave up the magic and no longer were the darling of your father's eye, you still had high rank, a place in the Council, the friendship of the gryphons, and Dawnfire. Now you've taken the magic up again, and you have it all back. And there stands good old reliable Wintermoon, upstaged again."

  "I never thought of it that way," he said, slowly. "It never occurred to me."

  "I didn't think so. Ever wondered why he spends so much time outside the Vale—why he volunteered to go wandering about the countryside with Skif in tow?" She rubbed her forehead on her sleeve. "I did. Gwena says she thinks he does it so that he won't get jealous of you. He really loves you, just as truly as any brother—but hellfires, Darkwind, it must be awful to stand around and watch you, and see everything you want just fall into your hand like a ripe fruit!"

  "Oh," he replied, feeling very—odd. Very taken aback.

  "So, now you're confronted with Firesong, and you're feeling the same way Wintermoon has since you started showing Mage-Gift." Her bright brown eyes regarded him soberly from beneath a lock of hair. "Doesn't feel very good, I'd imagine."

  "No, it doesn't," he admitted. "But—you—"

  "Oh, I'm used to not being the best." Elspeth shook her hair back. "Talia was better than me at classes, Jeri was better than me at swordsmanship, Mother is much prettier than me, Kero's better at strategy, Step-father at diplomacy, Skif at being sneaky—the only thing I was really good at was pottery, and I didn't deceive myself into thinking I was the best in the Kingdom." She spoke airily, but Darkwind sensed that old hurt under her words.

  "Elspeth, I think the thing that bothers me the most is that Firesong has your admiration," he said, unhappily. "I am jealous of him. He is so much more my master at magic—I feel like a bare apprentice. But it is the fact that you admire him so that angers me, and I cannot help myself."

  It truly cost him in pride to admit that, and she stared at him a moment longer. "You know, Kero told me something, once. She said—'you'd think being able to speak mind-to-mind would put an end to all the misunderstandings between people, but it doesn't.' She was right, too."

  He shook his head ruefully. "I have often found that when there were misunderstandings, both parties found reasons not to share their thoughts."

  "Exactly." She widened her eyes, and he felt the delicate touch of her mind on his. :Firesong has Power. Firesong is too beautiful to be human. Firesong is worth admiring. But from a distance. He's not called Firesong for nothing—he breathes in the admiration and everything else around him. Fire can warm you from a distance, but it burns when you get too close to it.:

  There was no doubting the truth of the feelings behind the words. He ducked under the water for a moment, then emerged and hoisted himself up onto the bank beside her, "Then you forgive me for being a beast?"

  She grinned. "I think you could persuade me to."

  * * *

  Tre'valen soared the spirit-skies in a new form; that of a vorcel-hawk. Smaller than Dawnfire—as was only appropriate for a tiercel—and with nowhere near her power, he still hoped that in this form she would see that he was trying to meet her halfway. She had avoided him for days now, and he was not certain if the reason was anything to do with him, or if it was something outside of both of them.

  Surely the Goddess knew of his feelings toward Dawnfire. Could She not approve, to let him continue to pursue Dawnfire? It would take the barest blink on Her part to slap him to the ground, away from Her Avatar—yet Tre'valen sought Dawnfire still. Surely the Goddess knew that he was still devout, that he searched always mindful of serving Her people better. No matter how his heart might cry to him of how Dawnfire needed him, and he needed her—he was still a sworn shaman, and owed his loyalty to Her and Her purposes.

  Hold, though—had he truly just assumed Dawnfire needed him? He did not k
now for certain if he read her emotions or his own. Her eyes were no longer human when he saw her. Could he believe the desire for companionship he saw in them? It was all so complex, and he had so few real facts to work with. He could only do the one thing a shaman ultimately must: trust in who he was and let his long-learned morals determine his actions.

  He had always been bright-eyed and adventurous; the Goddess had not been displeased by it when She took him as Her shaman. It would be senseless to deny his nature—better to act on it.

  He had walked the Moonpaths to no effect—so now he tried a desperation move. He left the Paths altogether, and turned his flight into the starry night between them.

  Prudent Kra'heera had never left the Paths in all of his long life as a shaman. Tre'valen had heard of some—a very few—who had, and lived to do so again. They were not many, but their adventures had been in times calmer than these. There were new things happening, strange and promising and frightening at once, and risks were somehow more appropriate. The risk of leaving the Moonpaths paled before the danger of his courting the Goddess' own Avatar.

  Still, if Dawnfire would not come to him, he must needs go to her.

  He felt the lift in his "belly" as he lifted from the Paths, on wings made of glittering golden Stardust and lit by his own life. A shiver as though from a cold wind, a knifelike wash through his sunlight-feathered body, and the Moonpaths dropped away below him.

  Foolishness it might be—but glorious it certainly was.

  He soared and wheeled above and under the Paths, able now to See the patterns upon patterns they coursed into, and the colors and layers as far as his spirit-eyes could discern.

  But she was nowhere to be found.

  Perhaps he was looking in the wrong place entirely? Well, there was nothing keeping him from using this form in the "real" world—and if she soared the physical skies in her hawk-form, she would surely see him in this guise.