No, you fool, Starblade cried at his younger self. Go back! Get help!
Nothing trivial would frighten that many firebirds!
But this was a vision of the past, and his younger self did not heed the silent screaming in his own mind.
He reached out with his mind, seeking the panic-stricken firebirds first of all.
Until he could get them calmed and sent away, he would never be able to put the flames out. One by one he touched their minds; turned their helpless panic into need for escape instead of defense, and sent them winging back to the Vale. One of the beast-tenders, the Tayledras who spoke easily to the minds of animals, would take care of them. He had a fire to quench. there were more firebirds than he had expected, and they were in a complete state of mindlessness. It took time to calm them.
But while he had stood there like a fool, the fire had jumped the tiny pocket of greenery where he worked, and ringed him. He opened his eyes, weary with the effort of controlling the birds, to find himself surrounded by a wall of flame and heat. the leaves were withering even as he watched, the vegetation wilting beneath the heat of the hungry flames. Fear chilled him, even as the heat made him break into a sweat. That was when he realized, when he reached for the power to quench it, that he had exhausted himself in calming the birdsand that he was cut off from the node and the nearest ley-lines. Something had sprung up while he worked; something had arisen to fence him away from the power he needed, not only to quell the fire, but even to save himself. He was enveloped in a wall of shielding as dangerous as the wall of flame.
Smoke poured into the hollow; something brushed against his leg, and he glanced down to see that a rabbit, blind with panic, had taken shelter behind his ankle. The heat increased with every passing moment; it wouldn't be long before this little valley was afire, like the rest of the forest here. He was not clothed for a fire; he had run out in his ordinary gear, a light vest and breeches. He had nothing to protect him from the flames, nothing to breathe through. There was only one thing he could do-wrap the remains of his power about him in as strong a shield as he could muster, and run-As the nearest flames licked toward him, he sent his bird up into the safety of the skies, and sprinted for what he hoped was the easiest way out. Straight into hell.
On the sleeping pad, his body writhed in remembered agony, his mouth shaping screams of pain he was not permitted to voice.
Flames licked his body, hungry tongues reaching out from burning scrub, a tree trunk. There was no pain at first-just a kind of warm pressure, a caress as he ran past. Then came the pain, after the flame had touched-red heat that blossomed into agony. Sparks fell on him as he dashed under a falling, blazing branch. He wrapped his hair around his mouth, and still the air he breathed scorched his lungs. Within moments, there was nothing but pain-and the fear of a horrible death that drove his legs.
Then-cool, smokeless air. He burst out past the fire-line, into the unburned forest. Freedom.
But not from pain. He fell into a stream, moaning, extinguishing his smoldering leather clothing and hair. the stream cooled him but did nothing for the pain, for the horrible burns where the skin was blackened and crisped on his arm. How long he lay there, he did not know. Smoke wreathed over him, but the flames did not grow nearer. He could not tell if it was the smoke that darkened his sight-or his pain. Only that, after a dark, breathless time of agony, salvation loomed out of the smoke, a spirit of mercy-vague and ghostlike.
NO! he screamed. NO! Don't believe him! Kill yourself, draw your knife, kill yourself while you have the chance!
He reached out toward the mist-wreathed shape, who seemed to be someone he knew, yet could not identify. Hazy with an intimation of power, the stranger's white hair was a beacon that drew his eyes. White hair-a Tayledras Adept, surely. Yes, he knew this one; he must. Rainwing? Frostfire? Both were recluses. No matter-he managed a croak, and the other started and turned his steps in Starblade's direction.
No- he moaned. No" I thought I heard someone Call," said the other, stooping over him in concern. "I see I was right. ~ His lips shaped words he could not speak for lack of breath. "Help meSilver hair wove a web of light that dazzled his eyes. the Adept's own eyes, gilded-silver, held his. "I will have to take you to my home," the other said worriedly. "The fire has cut us off from Tayledras Vale. But I can tend you there, never fear. Will that be all right?" Starblade nodded, giving consent, and as a consequence of that consent, relaxed all of his defenses. And as the other bent closer over him, to lift him in amazingly strong arms, he thought he saw a peculiar gleam in the other's eyes...He awoke again, resting on something soft, his arms thrown over his head, with a tawny silken coverlet swathing him from chest to feet. He still hurt, but he was no longer covered with angry, blackened burns, and he took a deep, experimental breath to find his lungs clear again.
Then he tried to move his arms-and couldn't.
He tried harder, struggling against silk rope that bound him hand and foot-with no better success. A deep chuckle answered his efforts.
He twisted his head to face the source of the sound.
"So eager to take leave of my hospitality?" said the tall, catlike Changechild, smiling as he paced toward the couch on which Starblade lay tethered. the creature had modeled himself on a lynx; was clothed mostly in his own tawny-silk hair, but wearing a supple, elaborately tooled and beaded leather loincloth. "How-uncivilized of you. it-he-smiled, with sensuously parted lips. Starblade wrestled furiously against his bonds. "My Clan will know where I am," he warned. "Even if You kill me, they will know where I am, and they will-"
"They will do nothing," the Changechild yawned, examining the flex of his own fingers for a moment, admiring his needle-sharp talons. "You accepted my offer of help, consented to come away with me. You will leave no trail of distress for them to follow-and you are behind my walls and shields now. Call all you like, they will not hear you." Starblade snarled his defiance. "You forget, misborn-I am Tayledras.
My bird will bring them here!" He sought for Karry's mind with his own, even as the Changechild moved slightly aside and gestured. "If you mean that-it tried foolishly to attack me.
Starblade followed the gesture to a shadow-shrouded corner, where something thin and almost-human looked up with wild, unfocused eyes, its hands and mouth full of feathers.
Perlin falcon feathers.
Karry's feathers.
Silent tears ran into his hair; silent sobs shook his body. None of it brought Karry back.
The crow cawed; it sounded like scornful laughter. the Changechild sat on the edge of the couch, and flicked away the covering, leaving him naked and unprotected, even by a thin layer of silk. He shrank away, involuntarily. "I am called Mornelithe, rash birdman," the creature said, idly gliding a talon along Starblade's side. "I think I shall take another name, now. Falconsbane." He glanced sharply at Starblade, who continued to fight his bonds, though his eyes blurred with the tears for Karry he would not-yet-shed. "And believe me, my captive. In a shorter time than you dream possible, you will have another name for me." He paused, and a slow, lascivious smile curled the corners of his mouth. "Master, he said, savoring the word. then he bent over his captive and transfixed him with a pair of green, slitpupiled eyes, that grew and grew until they filled Starblade's entire field of vision.
"I think we shall begin the lessoning now.
Mercifully, he could no longer remember that lessoning, not even under the goad of Mornelithe's spell. It involved pain; it also involved pleasure. Both hovered at the edge of endurance. Mornelithe was a past master at the manipulation of either, of combining the two. When it was over, Mornelithe had the keys to his soul.
He knelt before the Changechild, abasing himself as fully as he could; worshiping his Master, and detesting himself for doing so. All that was in his line-of-sight at the moment was the golden marble of the floor, and Mornelithe's clawed feet. thankfully, he had not yet been required to kiss them this time.
"Ah, birdman," Mornelithe chuckled. "Yo
u grovel so charmingly, so gracefully. It is almost a pity to let you up." Starblade felt himself flush with shame, then chill with fear. Too many times in the past, such seemingly casual words had led to another "lesson."
"'You have learned your place in the scheme of things quite thoroughly, I think, Mornelithe continued. "It is time to let you return to your lovely home.
Instead of elation, the words brought a rush of sickness. Bad enough, what he had become-but to return to the Vale, bringing this contamination with him-He wanted to refuse. He wanted to rise, take the dagger at his belt, and slay his tormentor. He wanted to take that same dagger and slay himself.
He tried to assert his will; he closed his eyes and concentrated on placing his hand on the hilt of that dagger. He was an Adept-he had training, experience, his own personal powers. His will had been honed to an instrument like the Starblade of his use-name. Surely he could reclaim himself again. Yes... yes, he could. He could feel his will stirring, and opened his mouth to denounce his captor.
"Yes, Master," he heard himself say softly. "If it is your will.
He felt his lips stretching in an adoring smile; his head lifted to meet Mornelithe's unwinking eyes. His hand did not move from the floor.
There were two Starblades inside his mind. One worshiped Mornelithe and looked to his Master for all direction. That was the one that was in control, and there was no unseating it. But buried deep inside, away from all control, bound and gagged and able only to feel, was the real Starblade.
Mornelithe could have destroyed even this remnant; he had not, only because it amused him to see his victim continue to suffer, long after the contest of wills had ended.
"I do not entirely trust you, dear friend," Mornelithe said, softly, as he reached down and touched Starblade's cheek. "You were a stubborn creature, and I do not entirely trust you away from my sight. So, I shall send you a watcher, also-one that the rest will take for your new bondbird.
Here-" He snapped his fingers, and held out his hand-and a huge crow, identical in every way to those the Tayledras bonded with, flapped out of the shadows beside Mornelithe's chair to land on the outstretched arm. the Changechild gestured with a lifted finger that Starblade should rise from his crouch to a simple kneeling position; the Tayledras' body obeyed instantly, even while his helpless mind screamed a protest.
The crow lifted silently from Mornelithe's wrist, and dropped down onto his shoulder.
And what little remained of Starblade's will was frozen with paralysis.
"There," Mornelithe said with satisfaction. "that should take care of any little problems we may have, hmm?" The crow cawed mockingly, joining Mornelithe's laughter...The memory-spell released him, leaving him limp and shaking, with the echo of that laughter in his ears.
From the moment he had left Mornelithe's stronghold-which leave-taking he did not remember-he had been completely under the Adept's control. And Mornelithe was an Adept; there was no doubt of that. All that he lacked to make him a major power was control of a node. The only two for any distance around lay in the hands of the Tayledras.
Mornelithe intended to change that. And at the time of his release, that was all that Starblade had known; he had no idea what Mornelithe planned.
Nor, when he was found wandering in the heart of the burned area, did he even remember that he had been taken.
Instead, he had false memories of being overcome with smoke, of losing Karry somewhere in the heart of the fire-of taking a blow to the head from a falling tree. Then vague and confused recollections of crawling off and hiding in a wolverine's hole until the fire passed, of smoke-sickness that pinned him in the area for several days, of bonding to a huge crow who brought him fruit to feed him and supply his fevered body with liquids, and his final desperate attempt to get back to the Vale.
And the false memories passed muster. The crow was unremarked upon.
He had only an unusually touchy temper that caused his friends and son to give him some distance until he should regain his normal calm. Any changes in him, they-and he-ascribed to the trauma he had endured, and they all felt that those changes would pass in time.
All else seemed well, until the ritual to move the Heartstone.
Only then, after the disaster, did his true memories return. And it was then that the rest of his hidden memories emerged-Memories of going to the Heartstone every night, and creating a flaw in it, leeching the power away from a place deep inside, and creating an instability that would not be revealed until the entire power of the Vale had been loaded into it, preparatory to bridging the distance between the old Heartstone and the new.
That was the first night he had tried to fling himself from the top of his ekele.
Once again, Mornelithe exerted his power over him, through the compulsions planted as deeply within him as he had planted the flaw in the stone. The crow was the intermediary of those compulsions, and since it never left his side, Mornelithe's hand was always upon him.
And when he tried to confess his pollution, he found his tongue uttering simple pleasantries. When he tried to open his mind to let others see the traitor within their ranks, he found himself completely unable to lower his own shields. As he had been in Mornelithe's stronghold, he was bound, gagged, and paralyzed, a prisoner within his own mind, still toyed with and controlled for Falconsbane's pleasures and purposes. At least half of the time, that tiny portion of himself that was still free was buried so deeply that it was not even aware of what passed, what Mornelithe made him do, and say.
All he could do, in the moments he was free to speak and act, however circumspectly, was to alienate his son, in the barren hope that, once made into an enemy, anything Starblade supported, Darkwind would work against. It looked as if the ploy was working.
At least, it had until the death-no, murder-of Dawnfire. Once again the hand of Mornelithe Falconsbane had reached out to take what he wanted, and again Starblade had been helpless to prevent it.
There was only one further hope. Darkwind had withdrawn from the company of mages after the disaster. Darkwind lived outside the influence of the flawed and shattered Heartstone. So Darkwind's powers should be uncontaminated by Mornelithe's covert influence. If he could just get Darkwind to take up his powers again-Darkwind would call for help from the nearest Clan. The deceptions that had held for so long would shatter under close examination, and Mornelithe would find himself locked out, once again.
But how to get Darkwind to resume his powers, after all that Starblade had done to keep him from doing just that?
Starblade groaned, and threw his arm over his eyes. There seemed no way out; not for him, nor for anyone else. k'sheyna was doomed, and his was the hand that had doomed it. The only way out was death, and even that had been denied him.
Damn you, Falconsbane! he shrieked inside his own mind. And it seemed to him that he caught a far-off echo of derisive laughter.
Darkwind felt torn in a hundred pieces, divided within himself by conflicting emotions, responsibilities, and loyalties. Treyvan had kindled a mage-light; a dim orange glow in the center of the ceiling of the lair.
Yet another surprise to Darkwind; he hadn't known the gryphon could do that, either.
He slumped in one corner of the gryphons' lair with his head buried in his hands and his mind going in circles. Hydona curled protectively around her youngsters, trying to minimize whatever harm Falconsbane had already done them. Her shields were up at full strength, with Treyvan's augmenting them. Darkwind's shields augmented both of theirs; he had never renounced that part of his mage-craft, and he squandered his own energies recklessly to stave off any more disaster that might befall his friends.
Nyara sat curled into a ball in the opposite corner of the lair, with as much distance between herself and the rest of them as she could manage.
After his initial outburst of rage-during which he had come very close to breaking her neck with his bare hands-Darkwind's anger toward the Changechild faded. After all, none of this was of Nyara's plo
tting. He should have known better than to leave her with the hertasi, who were mostly creatures of daylight, to keep her watched at a distance by tervardi and dyheli who also moved mostly by day.
I should have found a night-scout willing to watch her, he thought distractedly.
Hindsight is always perfect.
"All right," he said, breaking the silence, and making everyone jump.
He turned to Nyara, who shrank farther back into her corner, her eyes wide and frightened. "Stop that," he snapped, his tightly-strung nerves making him lash out at her as the only available target. "I'm not going to kill you."
Winds Of Fate v(mw-1 Page 36