Valdemar 11 - [Owl Mage 03] - Owlknight

by Mercedes Lackey

  Three

  Darian shivered as he followed Firesong down the stairs to the dome complex nestled at the foot of the tree. Most of that structure belonged to Silverfox, but Firesong kept one private room for himself, protected with the tightest permanent shields inside k’Valdemar. Layer upon layer, unseen buttress against invisible firewall, every sort of stabilized, strengthened magical protection known to the Adept had been firmed up. Over the past years they had been cast and enchanted into virtual patterns of stone, as if mortared by an expert, with the equivalent of pockets and drains for excess power to collect. This was Firesong’s workroom, where he had taught Darian for two years; many of the shields were not meant to keep anything out but rather, to keep Darian’s “mistakes” from escaping.

  There hadn’t been a great number of those mistakes—no more than three, all in his first few months with Firesong, and all minor ones—but the existence of those shields allowed him to work without worrying about the consequences of an accident to the rest of the Vale. The first had resulted in no worse than a burned hand and singed eyebrows, the second a splitting headache for both of them, and the third, a scorch mark on the floor surrounded by frost, which resulted in an intensive series of lessons on why resilient shields were more important than rigid ones. Darian had known all along that every lesson would lead up to a Mastery Trial, but he’d assumed he would have time to prepare for it, and undergo days of special readiness rituals.

  Why now? Why not give me some time to work up to this? he asked himself, anticipation setting his nerves afire. He had no idea just what was going to be expected of him—

  And it was too late for second thoughts. Firesong had reached the bottom of the staircase, palming something from one of the dozen narrow shelves of ornaments and oddities, and held open the door to the workroom for Darian. His scarred face showing nothing except pleasant anticipation, quite as if this were just another, perfectly ordinary lesson. Darian entered the door into the windowless room, lit from above by a blue-tinted skylight, and Firesong closed the door behind them both. He dropped a latch that all but seamlessly blended into the interlaced trim that ran around the room.

  With the closing of the door, the shields sprang up and into place all around them, creating a kind of hum in the back of his head and a tingle along his skin. Firesong leaned casually against the doorframe, folded his arms across his chest, and nodded. “The usual,” was all he said laconically.

  So Darian began with “the usual,” the building of his own shields, spreading them outward to encompass the room, then integrating them with Firesong’s shields that were already in place, leaving some layers fragile so they could collapse back in case of a surge. He could have done this much in his sleep; it took scarcely a thought to shape his own energy to his will now. It hadn’t always been that way.

  But next came an addition to his shields, a shunt to drain off excessive heat. He had never actually needed this shunt before, but unused mage-energy, if not properly grounded and sent back to its source, or energy that came in to the mage at a rate greater than he could handle, manifested in waste heat. At the level a Journeyman worked, this was a trivial concern; the worst that happened was that the area got a bit too warm for comfort—or the occasional flash, like the earlier accidents. In fact, if working in the dead of winter and there was energy to spare, some Journeymen deliberately eliminated the shunt so as to warm the area they worked in. This ability to deliberately create heat made mages very popular in cold climes and seasons, and some weather-work was based directly on that effect.

  But at the level a Master worked, improperly handled energy could be deadly; the shunt was a necessity—as Firesong’s own scars testified. At the end of the Mage Storms, when trying to avert magical catastrophe, Firesong and his allies had done everything right, but the energies they had dealt with had been greater than any mage before or since had ever faced—even Adepts working in concert with Avatars of the Star-Eyed Goddess of the Shin‘a’in had not been able to prevent all the damage such an overwhelming force could conjure.

  “Now locate all the Heartstones of all the Clans,” his mentor told him. Darian nodded, and unfocused his eyes to better invoke OverSight and see into the plane of mage-energy, searching out each active Stone and tracing the intricate web of ley-lines that surrounded them. First, his own—k’Valdemar was a lesser Stone by any estimation, but it was growing, its power increasing daily. He was rather proud of that, for some of the energies invested in the Stone were of his harvesting. Each bit of power he had added over the past two years had made the Stone stronger and more stable, so that now it was possible to turn this into a real Vale by all Tayledras standards.

  Then—the Heartstone under the Palace at Haven. This one was a bit peculiar; very old, very powerful, but quiescent. The shields had held through the last of the mage-storms, making it just about the only magical artifact outside of a Vale that had survived complete and untouched. There wasn’t much pull on it at the moment, for there were not that many Herald-Mages about who could use it. Someday, perhaps, Haven would be the Valdemar version of a Vale—but for now, the Stone slumbered. Like a war horse asleep in its stall, it wouldn’t take much to rouse it to fury, but the proper hands could control it with a mere touch of the reins or a whisper in its ear.

  However, his were not those hands; that power was there for the service of the Heralds. It was theirs, and theirs alone. They were sealed to it by their very nature, and by the bonds they had with their Companions. It helped to maintain a different sort of web of power, one that linked all Heralds and Companions together.

  Next, k‘Vala Vale, the nearest to k’Valdemar. Its Stone was old, too, though not nearly as ancient as the Palace Stone, and unlike that Stone, this one was fully awake and active, with much power flowing out as well as into it. There were plenty of demands on the k’Vala Stone, and it responded to those demands as smoothly as a masterful juggler kept an impossible number of toys in the air. It wasn’t quite alive, not quite sentient, yet there was a quality of “life” and “personality” to it that was the hallmark of every Heartstone. That wasn’t surprising, considering how closely linked to the life of a Vale the Heartstone was.

  Darian found and identified all of the stones, holding them all balanced within his mind, shining points of brilliant light in the web of life-energy. Firesong followed his work closely, and nodded when Darian found and touched the last of the lot, and the farthest, the Stone of k’Treva Vale.

  “Good.” Firesong seemed satisfied that Darian had done the job with a minimal expenditure of his own energies. As a Journeyman, that was all he could really draw on for sustained and heavy use; the energies he himself produced or stored. He could recharge himself with the little trickles of power produced by all the living things around him, but that was akin to filling a cup with the dew collected on leaves. He could also make use of the tiny rivulets of energy as the living power collected in trickles and flowed toward the ley-lines. But not until he reached Master could he use the lines themselves—or the Heartstone.

  Most schools of mage-craft built and maintained pools of power available to their Masters, but none except the Tayledras invested the energies not only of their own members but actually ran ley-lines into their power-pools and terminated them there. That was perhaps because only the Tayledras knew how to construct the Heartstones, to keep energy flowing out so that it never overloaded; of all of those outsiders who had tried, only one had succeeded—and that one was the legendary Herald-Mage Vanyel, Adept, and Tayledras-trained. Hundreds of years ago, Vanyel had invested the energies in the web that linked his Heralds, and a spell that had kept (or, more truthfully, irritated) “foreign” mages out of Valdemar, providing that steady drain; the Vales invested the excess in weather-control, shielding, and luxuries like the hot pools. When anyone else tried, the focus of power quickly destabilized in a manner quite destructive and usually fatal to all concerned.

  “Now,” Firesong continued, unperturbed, “w
ithout disturbing the ley-lines in any way, link yourself to the ones feeding our Stone.”

  He knew how to do that. He’d “watched” Firesong do it a thousand times-he’d practiced everything short of touching the lines themselves—and now was the moment of truth. He would either be able to call this hawk he’d trained back to his gloved fist, or fail—and feel its talons sink into his flesh, or watch it soar away out of reach forever.

  He noticed that Firesong had no personal shields up whatsoever in case of failure. Knowing Firesong, that might be just another way to increase Darian’s confidence, but it was a trust that touched him deeply.

  Except for a brief stab of something sharp, a mingling of fear and excitement, he didn’t let himself think or feel. He just acted.

  He “reached” out, moving surely, but not too quickly. He caught hold of the nearest ley-line, and without permitting himself to hesitate, seized it, opening himself to it.

  He knew enough to brace himself for the shock, but it still rocked him; it was like opening up his veins to a flow of white-hot glass! For a fraction of a second, he was immersed, blinded by the fiery incandescence, as pathways within him felt the caress of energies they had never known until this moment. Every breath seemed thicker, and every color more intense. All at once, he was drunk, delirious with power, dizzy with its intoxicating song, and disoriented.

  Then everything he’d learned, from Starfall, from Firesong, from the mages of k’Vala Vale, came surging to the fore, and it was he who was in control, not the power.

  It was still dizzying, still intoxicating, but the heady draught no longer overwhelmed him. He’d ridden horses in Valdemar, some very spirited and powerful horses. This was very like riding such a horse. He commanded; the power obeyed, but only because he had the skill to command and the strength of will not to succumb to the seductive song and be lost in it.

  Darian still remembered that lesson outside k’Vala Vale when he’d nearly gotten lost in the shift and flow of the simple life-powers of everything around him. Having experienced that, he knew would not make that mistake again. He made sure that he was still anchored in himself and let his channels become accustomed to the new sensations. Then, metaphorically, he sat back and allowed himself to experience the moment. The wonder of Tayledras teaching was that it permitted the student to accept those things, to comprehend them, but never to become numbed to them; it was a way of understanding, not just using. Now he understood as a Master would. It would never happen like this again, this first taste of power, this seductive latent drunkenness; Darian wanted to be able to remember it, however dimly.

  :A remarkably mature sentiment,: came a dry mental voice, after an interval. :But you, my young student, are a Healing-Mage. So what else do you see, feel, or sense?:

  What else? Was there anything else?

  But even as he asked himself that, his own Mage-Senses answered him, and he knew that, of course, there was. Within the stream of power that was the ley-line, there were a myriad of little subcurrents, and each of those threads told him of the health of the place it originated from. Eddies and obstructions in the flow as he traced it back out of the Vale showed him where the line itself needed alteration or mending. Two other mages-both Hawkbrothers—had tapped into this particular line; he sensed their presence at the same moment they sensed his. They acknowledged each other briefly, and went on with what they were doing. As did he; his touch moved by instinct and, sure from long practice, he mended the line, smoothing out the eddies, altering the flow until it ran swift and unimpeded.

  :Good. So, then, catch!: Just as he completed this work, Firesong flipped something at him. Before it had gone half the distance between them, he lanced out a coruscating line of force and caught it in a gentle net of power, holding it in midair. It was only a river stone, but as he met Firesong’s eyes and saw the approval in them, he was very glad that he had chosen to cradle it, and not blast it aside.

  :Well done. Now tap into the Heartstone,: the voice commanded. :You’re keyed to it. Now use it. Without dropping the rock, that is.:

  Without releasing his hold on the line or the rock, Darian did exactly as he had been ordered, reaching for the Heartstone, touching it, then melding with its outer edges. He sensed it test him (or was it “taste” him?) and recognize him. That was all there was to it; he joined with the Stone, and all its power was his for the taking.

  He’d expected an even wilder rush than the ley-line had fed into him; instead, this was like sinking into a peace-filled globe of light, or a blissfully hot pool of water. There was no sensation of heat, no exquisitely flickering inflow of energy; just the presence of enormous power, and the knowledge that he could do whatever he wanted with it.

  This was no spirited horse, obedient to his will, but a kind of partner; a reservoir with a mind of its own, that acknowledged his right to drink of it.

  Some mages signaled their achievement of Mastery with the production of “fireworks” that other mages of the same school could see and identify. But the Tayledras considered themselves no more than temporary custodians of their power. The Star-Eyed had granted them the use of that power for the purpose of healing the land after the Mage-Wars, and it wouldn’t even have occurred to them to make such a frivolous use of it as a peacocklike display of achievement with that power.

  Theirs was a different tradition; to leave their mark upon the Vale itself, creating some change that would improve the lives of all those dwelling within. And Darian knew just what his mark would be, as the first new Master of a new Vale. He had been thinking about it for some time, ever since he had been told of the tradition, and the last time he’d been in Ayshen’s office, he’d checked the maps and models carefully for a place that would be open and suitable for his gift.

  The lake at the far end of k’Valdemar was fed by several springs; he examined each of them in turn, to determine which would be the best candidate for his purpose. When he found one whose source was deeper than any of the others, he persuaded it to change its channel, to sink a little deeper, move nearer to the white-heat at the root of the Heartstone, before bubbling again to the surface.

  Now with its waters warmed, it would serve as the water source for the first of the outdoor bathing pools. It wouldn’t take the hertasi long to notice the change, and within days they would cap the new flow and be building great pools to receive the hot waters. By the end of the month, there would be Tayledras soaking in the soothing waters under the stars, and there would be room for anyone who needed a hot soak to come and take one. The current hot pools were all inside one of the first buildings to be constructed here, and there wasn’t enough room to accommodate everyone at the same time.

  :A fine choice of gifts to your Vale, Master Dar’ian.: Firesong’s mind-voice held a smile of approval, and Darian blushed a little.

  Just as carefully as he had taken control of Heartstone and ley-lines, he released them, but not before he replenished the power he had used to create his hot spring. He opened his eyes on Firesong’s little workroom to see his mentor’s eyes full of warmth and congratulations.

  Then he took a deep breath, and sat down carefully, right there on the floor, as exhaustion hammered him with a blow that made his legs go weak. He put out his hand and caught the river stone squarely in his right palm, as it dropped.

  “Put it all back, did you?” Firesong asked rhetorically. “Well, that’s proper, but you didn’t have to put all the energy back at one time. You could have ‘borrowed’ some of it.”

  “I didn’t?” he asked. “But with all the preparations for the celebrations, we’re going to be strengthening the Veil for a few days, and I thought we’d need every bit of energy now.”

  “Hmm. A kind thought. Never mind, you’ll recover by this evening,” Firesong interrupted, helping him up and keeping him on his feet with a hand beneath his elbow. He dismissed his shields, and Darian recaptured his own, feeling a little better as he took the power he’d expended on them back into himself again. Fires
ong didn’t take him far, only past the door and into one of Silverfox’s consultation rooms.

  This was a very small room, used only for counseling. It had both a large window and a skylight, but the furniture was minimal. There was a soft, dark-green sling couch there, though, and Darian was very happy to lie down on it, dropping onto the silk-covered, down-stuffed cushions with his head spinning a little.

  “Just lie there, and don’t move,” Firesong cautioned. He needn’t have bothered, as Darian had no intention whatsoever of moving. He felt as if he’d run all the way to Errold’s Grove and back.

  Maybe a few magical fireworks would have been a better idea, he thought as he closed his eyes.

  He woke again, suddenly, sweating, out of a dream that, like the one last night, he could not recall. His heart pounded in alarm, his hands were clenched on the fabric of the couch. An irrational feeling of dread hung over him, and he opened all of his senses in an effort to discover if there was anything wrong in the Vale at all.

  But there was nothing. The Vale was as it had been; crafters working at their tasks, hertasi scuttling about, gryphons dozing in the sun. His heart slowed, the sweat dried, and he was too weary to maintain his state of alarm. Gradually he relaxed, and slept again.

  The next time he opened them, he was feeling much better, and both the skylight above him and the open window beside him were dark. Someone had come in and covered him with a light blanket, then left a sweetly scented candle burning in a blue glass holder mounted on the wall. He felt better—but he didn’t much feel like moving.

  There didn’t seem any real reason to move, either; Firesong knew where he was, and had presumably told anyone else who needed or wanted to know. Silverfox wouldn’t mind him taking over the consultation room. And since Keisha wasn’t going to be home, there was no great urgency to get back to his own ground-bound ekele. He was perfectly content at the moment to lie surrounded by warmth and softness, let his thoughts drift, and listen to the night noises outside.