"A knife," he sighed. "How—predictable."
She thought about hitting him, but she was just too weary—mentally, emotionally, and physically.
He reached down for the offending object, cleaning it on his none-too-clean sleeve and handed it back to her. "Where's the other one?" he asked, as she slipped it into her arm sheath and pulled her sleeve back down over it.
"In the throat of the Eastern Envoy—who is, I suppose, back in his Master's domain," she replied. "He was building a Gate, I got him with the knife, and he fell through it."
Another curious onlooker peeked in the door but vanished before she could even snarl at him.
"Falling dead, with a knife bearing the crest of Valdemar on the pommel-nut," he said dryly. "Very subtle, Elspeth. Couldn't you have sent a more direct message to the Emperor? Like, perhaps, 'Your father won the Horse Faire. Your mother tracks rabbits by scent. Love and kisses, Elspeth of Valdemar.'"
A bit of the ceiling dropped, breaking the silence, followed by the sound of someone picking his way across the floor upstairs. She growled at him, at the end of her patience. "I didn't exactly have much choice," she pointed out. "And if we're going to get out of here before someone names us the assassins of the King, we'd better move now!"
"A good point," he acknowledged, and picked up his end of the board holding Darkwind. "Need—Gwena's rather handicapped at the moment. I don't suppose—"
:Gods. Can't you people do anything for yourselves?:
"We are not Healers," Nyara pointed out sweetly. "You are."
:Right. Bring logic into this.: Elspeth could have sworn that the sword sighed. :All right. Bring on the horses.:
:I am not—: Gwena snapped, :a horse!:
Skif helped Darkwind up into Cymry's saddle. Gwena's worst injuries were mostly to muscle, and easily within Need's purview; Darkwind's to bone, which took several days to Heal, and the best Need could do was set them and hold them in place. With Gwena Healed enough to carry her own weight, Elspeth elected to put Darkwind on Cymry's back and walk, with her on one side, steadying him, and Nyara on the other.
"I'll catch up with you," Skif told them. "You get back to the carnival and warn everyone that—let's see—" He thought quickly. "Falconsbane and Hulda tried to kill Ancar; he got both of them, but not before they called up a demon that mashed him to a pulp. Anyway, tell them all that, and tell them it's going to be hell around here when everyone realizes all three top people are gone. They may want to get out."
"They may want to stay and loot," Elspeth pointed out, tilting her head at the number of people trickling out of the palace carrying things—and the growing stream going in, unhindered by threat of fire, lightning, or remaining guards.
He shrugged. "Doesn't bother me; they'll just be getting back some of what Ancar's been taking, indirectly. There's just a few things of Ancar's I want to make sure don't survive."
Elspeth looked at him curiously, one hand on Darkwind's leg, supporting him. "What, documents? How could you know where—" Then she shook her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know how you know. We'll get ourselves ready for fast travel and meet you at the camp."
Cymry started forward, through what was left of the main gates. Gwena limped along behind.
Skif took himself into the palace.
By the time he slipped back out of the doors, there were people looting already—running through the hall, grabbing whatever they could carry, and dashing back out again. Most of those people wore the uniforms of Ancar's Elite Guard, which didn't surprise him in the least. None of them offered any kind of hindrance to him, once they saw he wasn't carrying any choice bits of loot. And every once in a while, he saw one of the political prisoners or kidnapped girls he'd just freed from the dungeons making for the city, some bauble or valuable in hand.
Behind him, one room and all its contents were burning merrily. One more small fire among the other three or four started by the lightning, anyone would assume. It was likely that looters would add to those fires before the night was over.
He stopped long enough at the royal stables to steal a pair of strong, fast horses, and a small carriage; they'd need both for An'desha and Darkwind. Some of the stable hands seemed to have had the same idea, for the really fine horseflesh and the royal carriages were all gone. As an afterthought, he stopped long enough in the courtyard to pitch a kind of souvenir into the back of the wagon he'd appropriated—the map that had saved Darkwind. He thought Elspeth would like to have it.
And as he passed through the gates, he was already making plans for the fastest route out, one that passed through the fewest number of towns that might hold garrisons. Getting to the border was going to be tricky.
Getting across was going to be even more fun....
Maybe we ought to see if old Firesong has one more trick in him. Or maybe Elspeth? A Gate into Valdemar would be damned useful about now....
Pires Nieth settled himself gingerly into Ancar's throne. To say that he was exhausted was understating the case, but he dared not allow that to show. He had only taken control of the chaotic situation by the thinnest of margins, and only because the commanders of the Elite were more afraid of mages than they were greedy. His illusions of demons alone had been enough to convince them that he held all the power of his late master; if he'd had to produce more than illusions, he'd have been in desperate trouble.
Fortunately, the commanders had taken the illusion for the real thing, and had brought their men back under control. Now the palace was completely cleared of looters, the city was rapidly being pacified, and he was the man who was going to inherit Ancar's rather damaged crown. Once anyone thought to contest him for it, well, it would be too late.
Hardorn was not what it had been—but it was more than he had ever owned before.
The throne was mostly intact, a few semiprecious stones missing. The throne-room itself was smoke-stained and bore the muddy footprints of looters. But it was still a throne and an audience chamber, and there were plenty of servants to repair both.
Oh, you've done very well by yourself, Pires, he congratulated himself as his cowed and frightened sheep—ah, courtiers and mages—gathered to pay him their homage officially. You have done very well by yourself, and all by being clever, watching everything, knowing when to play your hand—
A commotion at the end of the room made him frown. The courtiers swirled like little fish disturbed by the passing of a larger, hungry fish. What now?
A battered and disheveled messenger came pushing through the crowd, his eyes wild, his face sweat- and dirt-streaked. "The border!" he panted, frantically. "An attack on the border!"
Damn—the Valdemarans—well, I have no quarrel with them, I can simply make a truce—"What are the Valdemarans doing?" he asked. "Who's the commander in charge? How quickly can he retreat from—"
"Not the western border!" the man wailed. "The eastern border! The towers just relayed a message from the eastern border! There's an army there, a huge army, it outnumbers us by a hundred to one, and it's rolling over everything!"
It was at this time that Pires Nieth realized his throne might not be valuable for very much longer. And he tried to think of who he could go to that would trade Ancar's flattened crown for a fast horse.
Treyvan mantled his wings over the youngsters, cradling gryphlet and human alike. The salle was warm and bright, but the little ones took no notice of the sunlight, nor of the toys piled all around them. All four were distressed, for all four knew that their parents were going away, and where they were going, people got hurt.
He was making soothing little sounds, when suddenly his feathers all stood on end, and he felt the unique trembling in the forces of magic that signaled a Gate forming in this very room.
His first thought was that Falconsbane had found a way to build a Gate here, to attack the children. He shoved them all behind him, turning with foreclaws outstretched, building his shields and his powers to strike at anything that struck at him. His action took the two
Heralds on guard entirely by surprise, but they reacted with the speed of superbly-trained fighters, drawing their weapons and facing the direction he faced.
A haze of power shimmered in the doorway to the salle. Then—the door vanished, to be replaced by a meadow of sad, yellowed grasses—
A meadow?
And Firesong and Elspeth came stumbling through, followed by Nyara and Skif, the dyheli, the birds, and the two Companions, one of whom carried Darkwind on her back, and dragged a slab of wood. The other Companion carried someone else, wrapped up in so much cloth as to be unidentifiable.
The Gate came down immediately. So did Firesong, collapsing where he stood. Darkwind looked none too good either.
"Get a Healerrrr!" Treyvan snapped; one of the Heralds sheathed her blade and took off at a dead run before he even finished the sentence. The other joined him at Firesong's side.
"What happened?" the young man demanded. "Is—"
"We got Falconsbane, Ancar, and Hulda, in that order, yesterday," Elspeth replied, helping Darkwind down off Gwena's back. "All hell broke loose over there. We'll probably see the effects of it on the border, in a day or a week, depending on if anyone thinks to use the relay-towers to get word to the front lines. There was rioting in the city as we left, and we traveled just long enough for Firesong to get back the strength to Gate us home. The unrest was spreading faster than we could move."
"What isss the wood?"
Darkwind chuckled weakly, still clearly in some pain. "A trophy. A lifesaver of a trophy."
Just then, the first Herald returned with not one, but three Healers, and right behind them were Selenay and Prince Daren and their bodyguards, followed by a runner from one of the Valdemaran relay-towers. It looked as if the man had been bringing an urgent message, had seen the Queen and her consort running like dyheli for the salle, and had followed them instead of going to the Palace.
He nearly got skewered by the bodyguards until he flung up both hands, showing himself weaponless, and panted out, "Message from the border!"
"Ten to one it's starting—" Treyvan heard Skif mutter to Nyara, who nodded wisely, as she aided the unknown down from the second Companion's saddle. He, she, or it also simply slumped down to the floor, but not until Firesong had gotten to his (her?) side with one of the Healers.
Skif was right. The message from the border was of chaos.
Some of Ancar's army—the Elite—continued to attack. Most were fleeing. Even Ancar's mages were no longer a factor, for they were actually fighting among themselves.
"We need to get out there," Selenay said, immediately. "All of us. Companion-back it shouldn't take that long."
Elspeth shook her head. "I'm still in good shape, Mother. I can build a Gate for you. The only reason Firesong brought us here was because of the distance; it isn't even half that far to Landon Castle, and that should be right near the front." She grinned wanly. "I certainly saw enough of that place the last time Ancar hit us to put a Gate in the chapel door."
"Done," Selenay said instantly, and turned to Treyvan. He waved a claw at her. "Fearrr not, Lady. We shall be rrrready. Hydona and I can deal with sssuch magessss asss may get thisss farrr."
"Be here in a candlemark with whoever and whatever you want to take with you," Elspeth said, and looked at Darkwind. "I should go, too."
Selenay shook her head. "No, love, not really. Daren and I will go because there will be decisions on what must be done with Hardorn, but now—this is hardly more than a matter of cleaning up."
Darkwind nodded agreement. "The danger will not be to you. The dangers are all in a disorderly retreat, to keep the forces from hurting each other. Your people know you; you are the one in charge. And they no longer need an Adept out there."
"My thoughtsss exactly." Treyvan nodded. Selenay was not going to waste time or words; she and Daren hurried back out, trailed by guards, messengers, and Heralds.
Selenay and Daren returned with their Companions, all armed and provisioned, and a guard of six Heralds and six Royal Guardsmen. They were ready, Elspeth was ready—Treyvan was very proud of his young human pupil, who was showing her true mettle. He gently reminded her of how the Gate Spell worked, and stood ready to guide her "hands."
Elspeth took her place before the salle doors to create her very first Gate.
Treyvan watched her with the critical eye of a teacher but could find nothing to criticize. She had not needed his aid at all; she had done her work flawlessly. The portal filled with the image of a dark, ill-lit, stone-walled room. "That old miser never will buy enough candles to light that great barn properly," Selenay muttered, covering her amazement with the rather flippant remark. Treyvan thought it rather brave of her, when she did not ask "Is it safe?" but rather, "Is everything ready?"
A chorus of "ayes" answered her, and the Queen herself, with her Companion, was the first one through the Gate. Two by two, the entourage went through.
Elspeth dissolved the Gate—and sat down herself, abruptly. Treyvan was expecting it, however, and helped her to sit, waving away the Healer who had been tending Firesong. "It isss wearrrinesss, only," he assured the woman. "Gate-enerrrgy."
He bent over Elspeth. :Silly child,: he chided, mind-to-mind. :You have all of the Heartstone to regain your energies! Use it! Firesong assuredly is!:
:Oh,: she replied sheepishly. :I—ah—forgot: And only then did the Healer tending the unknown persuade her (him?) to remove the cloak swathing his face and body.
Treyvan flashed into "kill" stance, shoving the youngsters behind him with his outstretched wings. :Falconsbane!:
Then, before anyone could do or say anything, he looked deeply into the creature's eyes and saw there, not the ages-old tyrant, but a young and vulnerable boy.
He relaxed, flattening his feathers, and tucking his wings in with a flip. "Ssso," he said, "And who isss thiss, that wearrrsss the body of ourrr old foe?"
It was Firesong who answered, with one hand protectively on the boy's shoulder. "This is An'desha, old friend. And—"
:And he has earned more than the reward he sought.: The mental voice boomed through his head, resonating in his bones. Every feather on Treyvan's body stood on end, as he felt the stirrings of energies deeper and stranger than the local mage-currents. Light filled the room, a warm and sourceless light as bright as sunlight on a summer day. A faint scent of sun-warmed grasses wafted across the salle—
The light collected behind An'desha; more light formed into an identical column behind a very startled Nyara. The columns of light spread huge, fiery wings over the two; Treyvan's skin tingled and Darkwind and Firesong gasped.
:These twain have given selflessly. It is the will of the Warrior that what was stolen from them be returned.:
A female voice this time—and Darkwind reached toward the pillar of light behind Nyara as if he recognized it, and soundlessly mouthed a name. Treyvan realized that, no, these were not winged columns of golden light, but a pair of huge golden birds, shining so brightly that Treyvan squinted and the humans' eyes watered. But the birds had human eyes—eyes as black as night, but spangled with stars.
:So let the balance be restored.: Both voices called, in glorious harmony, a peal of trumpets, the cry of hawks—The light flared, and Treyvan cried out involuntarily, blinded, deafened, able to see only the light and hear only the joined and wordless song of those two voices, which went on, and on—And was, as suddenly, gone.
He blinked, his beak still agape. The light was gone, and with it the two huge hawks of light—
Then his beak gaped even farther as he looked down at what had been An'desha/Mornelithe.
A young, bewildered, and clearly human man sat there now; as he looked up in shock and wonder at Treyvan, his golden skin betrayed his Shin'a'in blood, although his golden-brown hair spoke of an outClan parent somewhere. His eyes were still green-gold and slitted like a cat's, and there was still a feline cast to his features; his build was still powerful and his fingernails still talon-like—but no one w
ould ever look askance at him in a crowd now.
Treyvan looked quickly to Nyara, who was staring at An'desha, and saw that similar changes had been made to her. She looked down at her hands, at skin that no longer bore a coat of sleek, short fur—and burst into tears.
It took a while for Skif and Treyvan to understand her distress, and longer for Skif to persuade Nyara that he still would love her now that she was no longer so exotic. Treyvan advised the blade Need to stay out of it; wisely, she did.
An'desha was simply overjoyed. He had never expected to look human again—he had only wanted a body back, not necessarily the original body Mornelithe had taken. It was from him that they learned what the two fiery birds were—"Avatars of the Shin'a'in Warrior"—and who—"A shaman of my people, Tre'valen, and his lady, Dawnfire."
Darkwind nodded as if he had expected something of the sort; he and Elspeth shared a warm and secret smile of pleasure. Firesong looked as if he had gotten a revelation from the gods. The gryphlets and children, who had been quiet witnesses to all of this, simply watched with wide, delighted eyes.
Finally, they packed themselves back up to the palace, silent, awestruck youngsters and all. Treyvan was simply afire by then with impatience. "I mussst know!" he exclaimed as they settled into the gryphons' rooms, and another small army of Healers and servants descended on them. "I ssssee that thisss An'desssha isss not Falconsssbane, but how, how, did he become Falconsssbane? Orrrr did Falconsssbane become him?"
Firesong had his arm about the young man's shoulders, in a gesture both protective and proprietary. "Falconsbane became him, old bird," the Adept replied. "And how he got there is a very, very, long story."
:A long story? A long story?: Rris came bounding up at last, dashing in from the hallway, ears and tail high. :Knowledge is good! History is better! Tell me! Tell me all!:
Treyvan grinned to himself. Once the kyree discovered what he had missed witnessing, they were never going to hear the last of it!
Firesong laughed tiredly; An'desha stared at the kyree in utter fascination, and Treyvan only shook his head and sighed at Rris' unbounded enthusiasm.
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