Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  "I have more of the blood than most of Tale'sedrin," he replied boldly. "You cannot deny that. When did the Goddess create hair of gold and russet among the Clan, or eyes of green? Those are the legacy of Kethry shena Tale'sedrin, and if you would deny Tale'sedrin to be of the Blood, then you must answer to Kal'enel, for She decreed Kethryveris to be blood-sworn into the People."

  Swallow that, old man. There is not a Shin'a'in on the Plains who would dare say Tale'sedrin was less than wholly of the People, yet the Clan-seed came from a man and a woman who never even heard of the People until they were full grown.

  Caught without an answer, Jarim grimaced, his eyebrows drawing together into a frown. "When did the Goddess decree that the People might boast eyes as slitted as a plains cat's?" he finally said. "Or hair bleached to silver by magic?"

  Quickly, An'desha weighed all the possibilities and decided on the boldest course. "Will you close your mind because of what your eyes see, as if you were an Outclansman who believes only in what he has before his face?" he asked. "Or will you hear my tale and learn what happened when you were not there?"

  Jarim reared back a little, his head coming up, his spine going stiff. He had not been challenged like this since he had arrived here, and An'desha was well aware of this. But he had phrased his challenge very carefully, appealing to blood and clan, and the tradition that a Shin'a'in would always hear out a fellow Clansman before he made a judgment.

  Finally the envoy grimaced and jerked his head sideways. "Come to my rooms, then. I will hear you." He headed toward a nearby staircase, and An'desha followed him willingly.

  Jarim's rooms were precisely as An'desha had thought they might be; spare by Valdemaran standards, with most of the furniture gone, but quite luxurious by the standards of one who lived all of his life in a tent. At Jarim's gesture, An'desha took a seat on a flat cushion on the floor, automatically dropping into the cross-legged position of anyone born in the tents. Jarim's mouth twitched; obviously he hadn't thought An'desha could even manage the seat on the cushion, much less the posture that marked a Shin'a'in the moment he sat.

  Interesting. I could almost believe that this man has not bothered to learn a single thing about any of the people here! Is that possible? Can he have been sent off so ill-prepared?

  Perhaps that was why he had been so willing to jump to conclusions about Karal and An'desha. If so—and if he would listen with his mind open at least a little—this might be easier than An'desha had thought.

  "What do you know of me?" An'desha demanded.

  Jarim paused, then shook his head, as if to say that there was not much he could state truly. "That you claim Shin'a'in blood, that you are paired with that too-pretty Tale'edras sorcerer, that you have the white hair of a sorcerer yourself. That allegedly you had a hand in building the protections which now keep the mage-storms at bay."

  An'desha closed his eyes for a moment. He knows nothing. We assumed too much. We thought that someone would have told him about all of us, and yet he has been working in complete ignorance, using whatever he happened to pick up in conversation and working it into the skewed and incomplete view of the situation he has built with poor information. It seemed impossible, insane that anyone would have sent an envoy off so poorly briefed.

  Then again, this was a Shin'a'in envoy. There were plenty of folk among the Clans who viewed anyone dwelling off the Plains with suspicion. He might not have felt it necessary to actually learn anything about the people with whom he was working. He might have decided that since his only duty was to represent the needs of the People, any such details were unnecessary.

  But how to tell him what he needed to know in a way that would make him believe it? He is less like the Healer and more like that stiff-spined old bear, Vorkela, the shaman of my Clan. Then he knew how to present his story—and Karal's—in the one way that such a close-minded individual would listen to.

  He altered his position a trifle, taking the poised, yet relaxed seat of a shaman about to tell a traditional history; Jarim responded automatically to the posture without thinking, taking a counter-attitude of subservient reception.

  And he didn't even realize he was doing it! The positioning of his own body would influence his mind; already An'desha had established who was to be the "teacher," and he had not yet spoken a word!

  He began his own tale with the traditional opening words and cadence of such a history. And although they had been speaking in the tongue of Valdemar, he spoke now in the language of the Dhorisha Plains.

  "Here is a tale; hear it with your heart, for it is as true as the Hand of the Star-Eyed and as sure."

  Through half-slitted eyes, he saw Jarim start, his own eyes (pen with surprise that An'desha not only knew the words, but knew the cadence with which they were chanted. "In the time when the Clans served a sorcerer called the Mage of Silence, in the time before the Plains existed and the Shin'a'in served to guard them, the great enemy of the Kal'enedral was Ma'ar, the Dark Adept."

  Only a few of the traditional histories began with those words, but An'desha was about to add to them.

  "When the Mage of Silence died, it is said that Ma'ar perished with him in the Great Cataclysm that formed the Plains. This is known and chanted among the Clans; what was not known until this very generation was that although Ma'ar's body died, his spirit did not—nor did it go to be weighed and judged. Ma'ar was a sorcerer of great power and greater evil, and he had discovered a way to cheat death." Jarim now was torn between fascination and impatience—fascination, because this literally was all new to him, and impatience because he could not see what this had to do with the present day. Nevertheless, long habit held him silent, for one did not interrupt a shaman in the midst of telling a tale, even if one did not see the point of it.

  "He had found a way to hide his spirit, his soul-self, in a pocket of this world," An'desha continued, phrasing the truth in a way that Jarim would grasp. "There it would wait until a male child of his blood proved that it had the Gift of magic power by trying the spell that called down fire. At that moment, the door of Ma'ar's hiding place would open, and he would rush forth, possessing the child and obliterating its own soul. Then he would shape the body of the child to be that of a man of full years, and he would stride forth into the world in possession of all of his old, dark knowledge and powers."

  Jarim forgot himself and tradition enough to interrupt. "But—this is the blackest of sins!" he cried, leaning forward to emphasize his words, his hands clenched on his knees. "This is the purest of evil!

  "And in these new shapes Ma'ar wrought more evil still," An'desha said calmly. "Taking care always to sire many children and broadcast them upon the land, so that there might always be another of his blood with the Gift for him to possess when he had worn out the body he had stolen. We knew him, often and often, for his hatred of the Mage of Silence extended to the People. He raised one eyebrow shrewdly, for in his memories was a particular "incarnation" that had made for much weeping among the tents of Jarim's own Clan in the long-ago. "Perhaps you know the name of Sar'terixa the Mad, whose evil caused the deaths of half of the young warriors of the Cat? That was Ma'ar, in the body he had stolen of a young mage of Kata'shin'a'in.

  "So; Ma'ar did this, and it was of great evil. The lives he stole were many, although there were times when a suitable child did not appear for generations. Then there was born to the Bear Clan a halfblood child, of a Shin'a'in father who called the boy An'desha."

  Jarim's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. This was encouraging, and An'desha continued. "Through the blood of his mother, An'desha had the gift for magic power, which is a thing forbidden among the Clans, but more than that, he was of the blood of Ma'ar's last incarnation, for the poor maiden was the child of rape although she knew it not. An'desha was a foolish boy, although he meant no harm to anyone; when he knew he had the gift of magic, he hid it as long as he dared. He feared the path of the shaman, but he feared more the loss of his gift, for in many ways he was less than
ordinary, and this was all that set him apart. So he hid his gift until he could hide it no more, and then he ran away, intending to seek the Tale'edras and learn the use of his powers among the Kin-Cousins."

  Jarim shook his head. "But why did he hide it and then run away?" the envoy asked in honest puzzlement. "Surely if he had gone to his leaders and told them he could not follow the path of the shaman nor give up the magic, they would have sent him there with a proper escort. It is no sin to seek the Kin-Cousins if one is unfortunate enough to bear that gift. I would send my own son to the Hawkbrothers if he wished it so badly."

  Well, that was more than I expected out of him! There's some flexibility there after all!

  "Thus speaks a man of generous heart whose Clan is as the flowers in springtime in their numbers," An'desha replied warmly. "Thus speaks a man whose Clan is generous, and lets the fledged bird fly where it will. But a man with only one son may not wish to see his blood leave the Plains and join that of the Tale'edras. And a Clan whose numbers are small has a fear to lose even one. An'desha would have had no choice; either he lose the power or become a shaman."

  Jarim thought about that for a while. An'desha let him digest the blunt words. They did not go down well, but he finally nodded, and An'desha took that as a sign to continue.

  I think it has finally occurred to him to admit that not all of the People are perfect.

  "So An'desha foolishly fled, found himself alone and afraid in the Tale'edras forest, and in his fear and loneliness, tried to call fire to keep him company."

  "And found himself possessed," Jarim filled in grimly.

  "And found himself possessed." An'desha nodded. "But this time the case was different. An'desha did not fight, for he was not used to fighting. He fled, hiding himself deep in his own mind, and Ma'ar—who now called himself Mornelithe—thought he was destroyed."

  Jarim settled back, wearing a look of speculation. "So An'desha lived on. Of Mornelithe called Falconsbane I know some, none of it good. It is said he shifted his form to that of a man-cat of powerful build." He quirked his eyebrow in silent inquiry, inviting An'desha to admit that this was where his odd eyes came from.

  "He did, as you can see by this." He tapped the side of his head beside his left eye. "An'desha was a prisoner, for he dared never reveal his existence to Mornelithe." An'desha decided to cut some of this short. "Perhaps some day I will tell you some of what he endured and experienced. It is enough to say that it was more terrible than any human should ever endure. In the course of it all, Mornelithe Falconsbane became damaged, and also acquired as enemies the clan of k'Sheyna, the Clans of Valdemar, and Firesong k'Treva. And it was at this point that the Kal'enedral took an interest."

  "That I also remember," Jarim confirmed.

  "It was soon thereafter, with Falconsbane's hold and sanity weakened and An'desha able to exist with a little more freedom, that messengers came to him." Now, how far do I go with this? Better just describe them, and let him make his own conclusions. "They were two, spirits, one called Dawnfire and one called Tre'valen."

  "That is a Clan name." Jarim raised an eyebrow still higher.

  An'desha only nodded. "They came in the form of vorcel-hawks of fire, as well as in human form. They taught him to walk the Moonpaths, and their eyes were the black of a starry night." He did not wait for Jarim to comment, but moved on to the end of this part of the story. "They helped him to help the others in destroying Falconsbane truly, and for all time. Then—although I do not recall this—after all of them escaped to the safety of Valdemar, they appeared again. This time, to reward him, they transformed the strange body in which An'desha now dwelt alone back to the form that An'desha had borne those many years ago when Mornelithe stole it. They left only his eyes unchanged, to remind him and others what he had been, what he had endured, and the price he had paid. And now you have heard why it is that I appear the way I do. This tale I speak, that you may recall. This story I give, that you may learn."

  Jarim sat in silence for a very long time. An'desha waited patiently: silence was a positive sign; it meant that Jarim was at least thinking. The fire in the hearth beside them burned brightly and quietly, not even a hiss or a crackle to break the quiet.

  And, fortunately for An'desha, Jarim's thoughts had settled, not on the transformation, but on Those who had accomplished it. "They were Avatars," he said, slowly and reluctantly. "You have been touched by Her Avatars."

  An'desha just shrugged. "I make no judgments, and you may determine the truth of what I have told you for yourself. There are those who were present when I regained my true form who can describe what they saw to you. Among them are Darkwind and Firesong, whom I believe you trust."

  "But if—if An'desha's body was host to the Falconsbane—he—you—are much older than you look."

  "I believe," he said slowly, "that although They chose not to erase the memories, They elected to return to me all the years that had been stolen." Do think about that, Jarim. Think about how one can look seventeen and actually hold the bitter experiences of twice that many years.

  "Now, we come to the next story, if you are ready to hear more."

  Jarim made a wordless gesture which An'desha chose to interpret as agreement; his guarded expression held elements of awe, surprise, and speculation. An'desha rose to his feet, and Jarim automatically followed. "I should like to show you something, actually," he said. "Would you walk out with me for a space? Too much sitting is bad for the bones in this cold."

  Jarim caught up his coat and An'desha's and passed the latter over. An'desha did not resume his story until they were outside, walking in the chill air under a pale but brilliant sky.

  Once again, he told the tale traditionally as if "An'desha" was someone out of legend. "So An'desha was now in Valdemar, with his new friend Firesong. He had great power and did not know how to use it, feared to use it. He now felt things and was afraid of those feelings. Although his friend reassured him, An'desha knew that his friend had many reasons to want him to feel secure, and he mistrusted his friend's objectivity. Above all, he felt alone in this strange land, neither Shin'a'in nor Tale'edras, neither mage nor ordinary man. Further, terrible dreams foretold that there was a great danger coming to all the lands, yet he could not puzzle out what it was. He was as terrified as he had ever been, even when the Falconsbane ruled his body. Then he met a young man who was the apprentice of a priest come as envoy from his people." He decided not to name names; not yet. "Actually, it was Herald Talia who introduced them, knowing through her powers that both were lonely, both lost in the strange land, both in need of an ordinary friend. They came to be friends, and in his innocent wisdom, the young priest saw An'desha's terrible fears and knew the great danger that An'desha could pose if An'desha could not conquer his fears to grasp his powers."

  They had reached the edge of a memorial garden, and An'desha paused long enough to take some of the greens—and in season, flowers—that were always left there for visitors to place upon graves. Holly for Ulrich, with the berries as bright as flame, and bunches of golden oak leaves the color of butter, still on their branches.

  "You see, possession is not a thing that is known among the Shin'a'in. An'desha feared that Falconsbane was not truly gone, or that he had so tainted An'desha's soul that nothing An'desha did would be pure or clean again, or that he had warped An'desha's spirit so that An'desha himself would follow in Falconsbane's evil footsteps." He glanced aside at Jarim, and saw the envoy nodding. "But such a thing is known among this young priest's people, for their history and magics are different, and he and his master gently taught An'desha what he needed to know, and led him by example out of the darkness of fear and into the light of understanding."

  "And why did he not turn to his Avatars?" Jarim demanded. "Why did They not teach him? Would that not have been more fitting?"

  "Perhaps because the Avatars saw that he had mortal teachers?" An'desha countered. "They did not come, and in his fear he thought that this was his fault; perhaps
his fear kept Them away, or They felt that this lesson was better in the hands of mortals. Perhaps this was one of those times when She leaves mortals to choose their own paths, as She so often does. I do not make judgments upon what She directs Her servants to do."

  Since this was precisely what any shaman of the Clans would have said, Jarim was again left without an answer.

  "So, it was thanks to this brave young priest—who risked his life to show An'desha that he was not and would not be twisted into evil by having been touched by the hand of Falconsbane—that An'desha became a mage in truth, and wholly himself." Now they were at a particular small plot, one with four holders for greenery and a single bronze plaque that held Ulrich's name, rank, title, and the years of his birth and death in both Valdemaran and Karsite. An'desha added his handful of holly and autumn leaves to the other greenery there. Jarim looked puzzled, although he knew what this place was. The Shin'a'in burned their dead and scattered the ashes; the Karsites also burned their dead, but interred the ashes. Solaris had directed that Ulrich's be interred here, as a sign that the Alliance had been bound up the tighter by Ulrich's death.

  "Now, here is what An'desha saw, when he observed that young priest and his master." An'desha described in great detail the fatherly relationship between Karal and Ulrich, the affection, trust, and honesty between the two. He also described in great detail all that the two of them had done for him. And he sent a silent prayer to the spirit of that brave Sun-priest to help him choose the right words.

  I will not bring up Altra. I do not know that Jarim is open-minded enough to believe in an Avatar of any other deity but ours.

  "It was during this time that the mage-storms began, and An'desha knew that these were the terrible dangers his premonitions and visions foretold. Then it was even more important that An'desha learn not to fear the dreadful memories he carried, for it was within those memories that keys to stopping the mage-storms lay."