"That's not going to happen quickly," Darkwind put in.
"No. It will take several Adepts in relays to move it, and they will be working for several days to do so. But this should work." Firesong looked to Rris. "The shielding will be undertaken in pairs; like the shielding when a Heartstone is moved, but with double the mages. The pairs will be male-female, to enforce the balancing. I wish the gryphons to be in the West, if they would. Can you tell them that, as well as all else you have heard tonight? Can you remember?"
:Surely,: the kyree replied, with a lift of his head that signified slightly offended pride. :I know every kyree history-song, every tale the Tayledras have shared with my clan, and all of the four-hundred and twenty-three tales of my famous cousin Warrl. Carrying what I have heard to Treyvan and Hydona is no great task at all.:
Darkwind felt his lips twitching.
:With your permission, I shall go, to them,: Rris finished. At Firesong's nod, he was off, leaping across the circle and into the underbrush, presumably on his way back to the ruins.
Gwena chose that moment to absent herself, leaving only Firesong, Darkwind, and Elspeth. Darkwind was about to take himself off as well, when Firesong put out a restraining hand.
"There is trouble between us, Darkwind," he said levelly. "That trouble has not been purged. There is trouble between you and the Wingsister, for you have not truly dealt with it. And there is trouble between Elspeth and myself, for there are some assumptions that she has made that I have not corrected."
Darkwind's stomach knotted with sudden tension. He would have liked to make an escape, but he did not dare.
"These must be dealt with, all, before we enter the circle together," Firesong said but instead of turning first to Darkwind, he faced Elspeth.
"You have not been honest with Darkwind," he said levelly.
"I—" She started to protest, but the protests died on her lips under his stern gaze.
"You have not told him your true feelings concerning me," the Adept continued. "He has sensed it, but you have avoided dealing with your own feelings, and with him. You have not told him the truth."
"I—suppose not. I am very attracted to Darkwind. Very. But—you—" She shrugged helplessly. "I can't help it, and it isn't just because you're so infernally beautiful. Firesong—" She blushed furiously, and hung her head. "I've never wanted anyone—physically—quite so much."
Darkwind felt his jealousy rising to eat him alive. Had she been fantasizing that her lover was Firesong every time that the two of them had...?
"Well." Firesong nodded coolly, not in the least perturbed—or impressed. "You are not the first female to attempt to fling herself at me. Let me tell you that you are a good student, Elspeth, and worthy of the praise that I have given you. But you must know this; I am not as you think."
She shook her head, obviously not understanding. For that matter, Darkwind couldn't imagine what Firesong was getting at.
"I am," he said delicately, "the true descendant of your Herald Vanyel, on both sides of my family. It is from his blood that I have my power." Then, before Elspeth could register that surprise, he continued. "I inherited more than his power."
She shook her head; clearly she did not understand what he was trying to tell her.
He arched an eyebrow in Darkwind's direction. "Perhaps I should be a little more explicit. Elspeth, while I am sure you are a very attractive woman to some, it is Darkwind's hair that I would choose to braid feathers into if I could." He licked his lips. "In point of fact, I have been wishing that since I first laid eyes upon him. Had he not put his own feelings toward you out where anyone could see them, I should already have done so."
And Firesong actually blushed.
Elspeth had thought she had come to the end of the surprises that living with the Hawkbrothers brought, but this last series had caught her flatfooted.
First, of course—that the famous Vanyel had left any offspring. There was no record of that in any of the Chronicles, and no hint of it in any of the songs and ballads. Then came the revelation that Firesong was the descendant of that child—or children. There was no reason to doubt him; he had never lied before, and why lie about something so stupid, something that couldn't be proved or disproved here? Firesong already had plenty of status—and presumably fame—on his own; he surely didn't need to boast of a bloodline like some fading, failed highborn.
But the last surprise—
That he's—dear gods, what do they call it here? Shay'a'chern? Is that where we get shaych? Why am I thinking about where a word came from when—
When he wants Darkwind and not me....
First came a rush of profound embarrassment. She hadn't been made a fool of. She'd made a fool of herself quite nicely on her own, with no help from Firesong, making assumptions she had no right to make. She just wanted to crawl away and hide somewhere.
But then she was overcome by a flood of jealousy. But not of Firesong's attraction to Darkwind. No, she was jealous—and afraid of—Darkwind's possible attraction to Firesong. She knew the Tayledras were a lot more flexible about sexual matters than the people of Valdemar, even the Heralds. What if, now that Firesong's preferences were out in the open, Darkwind preferred him to her?
She was so jealous she was literally sick. Her stomach and shoulders were in knots; her throat too tight to speak.
Firesong was watching both of them, wearing an unreadable little smile, and measuring them from beneath his long white lashes. What was he thinking? Did he know how she felt? Was he amused?
Once again, she was dizzy with embarrassment, sick with the emotions warring for control of her.
She flushed, then paled, feeling herself growing hot, then cold, then hot again. Her ears burned, and the back of her neck; her hands grew cold, and she fought dizziness as she looked up with defiance into Firesong's face.
There was no doubt that the Adept had at least some idea of her internal battling; Firesong's smile increased, just a trifle. He tossed his head, sending his hair whipping back over his shoulders, and deliberately, tauntingly, lifted his chin at her. Then he grinned insolently, and turned away, walking off into the darkness, leaving his mage-lights behind him.
She couldn't look at Darkwind. She couldn't not look at him. She tried to look at him out of the corner of her eye, but caught his eyes by accident and was forced either to meet his eyes or look quickly away. She chose the former.
He coughed, and she saw to her increased confusion—as if it could be increased any further—that he was flushed a little himself. No, more than a little; the peculiar illumination of the mage-lights tended to wash his color out. Her hands were cold, her face still flushed, but she no longer felt so sick.
"I feel like a fool," he said, just before the silence became unendurable. "I feel like a true and crowned fool."
"Well, imagine how I feel," she said sharply. "Especially when I realized that I didn't care a pin how he felt about me or you, but—"
"But?" he prompted, and she flushed again, feeling her ears, neck, and cheeks burning.
She didn't really want to answer him, but if she didn't, she'd never know what his feelings were in the matter. "It really made me very unhappy to think you—might—" She shook her head, and finally looked right at him. "All right!" she snapped, angrily. "I was jealous, if that's what you wanted to know! I was jealous, because you might be more interested in him than you are in me!"
He simply watched her, soberly, without so much as twitching a muscle. He didn't say a thing, and now she was sick with embarrassment again. And with humiliation.
She knew, now that Firesong had pressed the issue and humbled her by forcing her to reveal things she had kept only to herself, that her attraction to Firesong had been nothing more than simple infatuation. It had only been complicated because she had so admired his competence, his intelligence, as well as his stunning looks.
But Darkwind was competent and intelligent. And her attraction to him was something a great deal deeper. Deep
enough to move her to jealousy; deep enough to make her willing to make a fool of herself, if it came to that.
"I have been a fool," Darkwind said quietly. "Even as you. Perhaps it was as much due to stress as anything else. We have been living a lifetime in the past few moons. We have both of us changed, sometimes profoundly. I can only take comfort in one of the Shin'a'in sayings—'No one has lived who has not been a fool at least once.' And," he summoned up a ghost of a smile, "with luck, we have had our entire lifetime's foolery from this."
"Oh I hope so," she replied fervently.
"But there is one other thing. I think that one," he nodded after the departed Firesong, "brings trouble with him as easily and purposefully as he brings baggage. I think that no matter where he went, he would leave unsuspecting folk in some kind of tangle. And I do think that at some level he enjoys doing so."
Elspeth found herself smiling a little; the heat eased from her ears and neck, and her stomach calmed. "No doubt about it," she said wryly, as her flush faded. "He would just revel in having the entire Vale fussing over him the way the hertasi do. I doubt he'd be happy if he wasn't the center of attention."
"Oh, and he would enjoy having us at odds over him as well," Darkwind replied. "Make no mistake about it. He is aptly named. I suspect he leaves lovers strewn in his wake like old, dead leaves. He would take great pleasure in being the centerpiece of a quarrel, only to turn about and mend it. But he is too much the Healing Adept to allow that to happen now in a situation this important. In a quieter time, perhaps."
"Well, he isn't going to get another chance from me," she replied firmly. "Let him go play his games with someone else." She shook her head, and realized that the muscles of her neck and shoulders were aching with tenseness. "Look, after all that, I need a soak. Come with me?"
He smiled, and reached for her hand. She met him halfway. "A good notion," he replied clasping his warm hand around her cold one.
Moments later, they were side by side in the hot pool below her ekele. She sighed as the heat and her own deliberate attempt to relax her muscles took effect, easing the stiffness and some of the pain.
It was very dark under the tree, and neither of them put up a mage-light to illuminate the shadows. He was a silent presence in the water beside her; not touching her, but there nevertheless. Above them the ever-present breezes of the Vale stirred the leaves of the tree; somewhere in the distance, a bird sang for a moment, then fell silent. Or perhaps it was someone playing a flute.
Darkwind lifted a hand out of the water, and the sound of drops falling from it to the pool seemed very loud. Elspeth emptied her mind and let it drift, full of nothing but the sounds around her.
"Do you think he meant that?" Darkwind said, finally.
"Do I think who meant what?" she asked, lazily.
"Firesong. Do you think he meant what he said about—" Darkwind hesitated, "—about me?"
"Why?" she asked, fiercely. "Because if you plan on taking him up on it, I'll—I'll—" She sought desperately for the most absurd thing she could say. "I'll scratch his big blue eyes out!"
Darkwind laughed, and she let relief wash over her again. "No, I do not plan on taking him up on it."
"Good," she replied. "Because in a cat-fight, I'd win."
"I believe you would," he said lazily.
"That's because I'd cheat," she continued.
"I know you would," he chuckled.
Then she reached toward him and found his hand catching hers, pulling her toward him. She decided not to fight and let her body drift to his.
"You would do that for me?" he asked. "Fight, cheat—"
"Well, fight, anyway. I'd only cheat if it was Firesong because he'd already be cheating." He put his arm around her, and suddenly it was good just to rest her head on his chest and listen to the night.
"He probably would." He took one or two deep breaths. "I do not think that you need to worry about Firesong, however." Another breath. "Or shall I show you that, so that you truly believe me?"
"Please," she said, surprising herself.
Then he surprised her.
Darkwind held Elspeth's hand, facing Iceshadow and Nightjewel across the circle, the Stone standing ominously in the middle, half-obscuring the other couple. To the right, Treyvan and Hydona faced the crazed surface of the Stone with no sign of trepidation; to the left, Starblade and Kethra stood, hand in hand, in a peculiar echo of Darkwind and Elspeth's own pose. In the middle of their carefully constructed circle was the Stone.
It showed its damage now, and not just to the inner eye. Trails of sullen red light crawled over its surface, strange little paths of lightning in miniature. Every line that could be severed from it, had been, and had been reattached to the node beneath the gryphons' lair. That had taken a full day, with a working team of the gryphons, Elspeth, and himself—and Firesong and Need.
He had been surprised when Firesong appeared with the blade in hand, he was amazed when the Adept actually used Need's powers. The two couples had held a warding about the circle, as the Adept and the blade together severed all but two of the remaining ley-lines and relocated them to the node beneath the lair. Firesong was not inclined to explain how he could use magics so openly feminine, and Need held her peace when Darkwind questioned the Adept. Elspeth was just as astonished. It was Nyara herself who had provided the answer, with an odd shyness, when he asked her.
"He is balanced," she had told Darkwind. "He is completely balanced between his masculine and feminine sides. So even as he can use man's magic, he can also use woman's magic, magic keyed only to females."
"Such as what Need holds?" he had asked.
She had nodded. "And since she is willing to do so, she can feed her power through his feminine side. She would not be able to do that, were he not so balanced."
So although Nyara did not have the mage-strength to enter the circle and wield the blade effectively in this case, Need was there anyway, and lending her power to the isolating of the Stone.
Falconsbane, thank the gods, remained quiet during that day, and during the day that it took for Firesong—alone, completely unaided—to create the proto-Gate from the Stone's remaining power. He would permit no one else within the shielded area. It was too dangerous, he said, and something about his unusual grimness made Darkwind believe him completely. Darkwind and Elspeth took a patrol on the edge of the Vale, encountering nothing more dangerous than a lone wyrsa, and returned to linger outside the shielded area, waiting for Firesong to emerge.
That was when he finally realized just what it meant to be a mage as powerful as Firesong. What it meant to be a Healing Adept, in terms of personal cost.
As the sun set, Firesong staggered across the invisible pass-through at the boundary and fell into their arms. No longer the arrogant, self-assured young peacock; he was drained, shaking, drenched with sweat. His very hair hung lank and limp with exhaustion. He was hardly able to stand, much less walk.
They held him up, Darkwind's heart in his throat, until he told them in a hoarse voice that he was all right. "Just—tired," he had croaked. "Very—tired. I have—called help."
The white dyheli that had brought him to the Vale appeared at that moment as if conjured, and Darkwind helped the Adept up onto the stag's back at his direction. "My hertasi are waiting," Firesong had whispered, from under a curtain of sweat-soaked hair. "I told them what to expect, what I would require. Thank you for helping me."
"Shall I get some other help?" Darkwind had asked, uncertainly.
The curtain of hair had shaken a faint negative. "They know what to do. It is their ancient function, I shall be well enough in a day or so."
Darkwind had nodded and stepped back, letting the dyheli bear his burden away.
And Firesong had been well enough in a day, making a recovery that seemed little short of miraculous to anyone who had seen him the day before. It seemed he had recovery skills as remarkable as his other skills.
Darkwind and Elspeth had taken another turn a
s border guardians, with both of them expecting trouble from Falconsbane at any moment. But no trouble came, nothing more than some odd glimpses of shadow riders, who could have been little more than nerves and an overactive imagination. Certainly they left no traces on the fresh snow. At the end of that day, they had returned to find Firesong waiting for them, fully restored.
"Tomorrow," he had said. "It must be tomorrow. Starblade and Kethra are not as strong as I would like, but Nyara is afraid that with every passing day, it becomes more likely that her father will strike again. Need agrees, and I will not underestimate Falconsbane again if I can help it. I will go to instruct the gryphons this evening, and we shall gather on the morrow."
Darkwind still did not know exactly what passed between Firesong and the gryphons, but it must have been interesting. Hydona would surely have met his young arrogance with an arrogance of her own, and Treyvan would have deflated Firesong with a few well-chosen comments. Nevertheless, here they were, calmly prepared to do what they must.
And in the center of the circle, ready to strike when all was prepared—Firesong and Need.
The young Adept looked carefully at each one of his chosen pairs, meeting the eyes of each of them in turn. Darkwind brought his chin up and nodded in answer to that unspoken challenge, and Elspeth showed the ghost of a feral smile. What Firesong saw must have convinced him that they were ready, for he nodded.
"Let us begin," he said simply, with no elaborate speeches. There was no need for speeches, after all. They all knew what they were to do, they had drilled together as much as they could. If they were not ready now, nothing anyone could say would make any difference.
Darkwind already held Elspeth's physical hand; now he held out a mental hand, and felt her take it firmly, but without clutching. He let the power build between them for a moment, then he bent his attention (though not his eyes) to the left, where his father and Kethra stood. Elspeth turned hers to the right.
He sensed Kethra building the power between herself and Starblade; then having secured her ground, she bent her attention to him, and he held out another "hand" to her. She took it, fumbling a bit at first, then her "grip" firmed. It was the clasp of a warrior, for all that she was a Healer.
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