Firesong especially was under stress; since the proto-Gate was linked to him, personally, he had to be the one in charge of directing its path. Although the hertasi swarmed over him, bringing him virtually everything he needed, there was one thing they could not give him, and that was rest.
But since they had learned that the proto-Gate could be anchored, his helpers only needed to work in four-candlemark shifts, and he himself needed only to work for
Darkwind had been very dubious about the wisdom of leaving the proto-Gate unguarded, but they really had no choice. Firesong would be helped into bed at the end of the day and sleep solidly until it was time to work again. So he had held his peace and had hoped that there was no way to interfere with the energy-point without Firesong knowing.
And once the proto-Gate was anchored for the night, it actually seemed that either there was something protecting it, or Falconsbane had not found a way to move it.
He paused for a moment, as that thought triggered a memory. Protecting it. . . .
He shook his head, and continued on his way. Had he seen what he thought he’d seen this morning, when he and Firesong and Elspeth took the first shift together? Had there been two shining, bright-winged vorcel-hawks flitting away silently through the gray mist of the not-world? And had they, a moment before, been standing guard over the proto-Gate?
In the end, it didn’t matter - except, perhaps, to Firesong. If the Adept knew that Tre’valen had survived in some form, he would be much comforted. Although Firesong hid most of his deeper feelings beneath a cloak of arrogance and flippancy, Darkwind was better at reading him now. The young shaman’s death still grieved him.
Then again, it could have been a trick of the not-world, a place where illusions were as substantial as reality, where nothing was to be trusted until you had tested it yourself. It could even have been a specter of his own half-formed hopes.
There was no denying the fact that someone was trying to steal the proto-Gate, however, and Darkwind was going to assume that it was Falconsbane until he learned otherwise. That meant that some of the nebulous plans the “war council” had discussed before and after the destruction of the Heartstone were going to have to be put into motion.
Darkwind was not certain what Falconsbane intended to do with the proto-Gate, or where he planned to anchor it, for that matter. Presumably on something like a Heartstone, somewhere deep in his own stronghold. If he did that, it would give him access to something that had the potential to become a full permanent Gate. If he knew how to effect the rest of the spell, that is. Firesong am, or at least Darkwind suspected he did. Not too many did, except for Healing Adepts - and not many of those. No one had had the secret in k’Sheyna for as long as Darkwind had been alive.
But even if Falconsbane didn’t know the trick, having the proto-Gate in his control would give him access to a great deal of power.
Nor was that all; unless Firesong freed himself first, access to the proto-Gate meant access to the Adept.
Darkwind did not want to see Firesong - or anyone else, for that matter - in Falconsbane’s hands. Firesong might be able to defeat Mornelithe in a head-to-head battle. He might be able to hold Falconsbane off long enough for someone to help to free him.
Darkwind was not prepared to bet on either of those possibilities. Dealing with Falconsbane had taught him this: it was much safer to overestimate the beast.
He could take over Firesong the way he took my father, and have the power of a Healing Adept to pervert. With that - he could undo anything any Vale has accomplished.
Horrible thought.
If he had a permanent Gate, he could bypass our shields and send his creatures straight into the mouth of the Vale at no cost to himself. That was another unpleasant scenario.
So it was time to consult Nyara who alone of all of them was an expert on her father.
Nyara had always liked Darkwind; now, with the pressures of her body and of her father reduced or gone altogether, she had discovered it was possible to simply be his friend. Over the past few days she had found him to be kind, courteous - and oddly protective, determined to keep his people from snubbing her or making her feel uncomfortable. That was not to be expected, particularly not with the pressures that were on him now.
She and Skif were actually working on sword practice; although Need had been putting her through exercises, this was the first time she had ever had an opponent to practice with. She welcomed the physical activity as a release from direct thinking. She did not want to consider what she would do when the time came that they both must leave the Vale. She wanted to go with him, but at the same time she was dance of steel and footwork.
Darkwind must have been standing at the edge of the practice circle for some time before she and Skif realized he was there. She spotted him first, and signaled a halt; only then did he enter the circle.
“You two look very good,” he said quietly. “I hated to interrupt you, but I think we’re going to have to figure out exactly where your f - Falconsbane is after all.”
She wiped sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, and nodded. “Did you find those maps you were talking about?” Strange; not so long ago, even thinking of her father brought her to the verge of hysteria. Now - well, she was afraid, only a fool would not fear Falconsbane, but she could face that fear.
“They’re in my ekele,” Darkwind replied, with a nod. “Could you two join me there?”
His treehouse was not far, even by Vale standards. Together he and she and Skif took an old set of Shin’a’in maps out of their leather cases and bent over them with something more than mere interest. They worked backward from the spot where Darkwind had first encountered her; Darkwind pointed out landmarks that he knew, as she puzzled her way through the strange notation.
“This would be it, I think,” she said at last, pointing to an otherwise unremarkable spot to the north and west. “I have not had much training in the reading of these things,” she continued apologetically, “but I think this is the likeliest place for my father’s fortress to be.”
Darkwind nodded, marked the place, and rolled up the thick sheets of vellum. “That’s the direction the proto-Gate is being pulled, so that rather confirms that your guess is correct,” he said. “And it confirms my guess as to who is behind this. Firesong is trying to second-guess our would-be Gate-thief, but I don’t think at this point that there could be much doubt about motivation. If it’s Falconsbane, then there is only one real answer. He wants what he’s always wanted; power.”
“The proto-Gate would be irresistible to him,” Nyara agreed, then widened her eyes as something occurred to her. “You know - it is rather odd, but he becomes more predictable under stress, had you noted that? I do not know why, but it is true. I have seen this over and over again, when I was still with him.
The more he is forced to react to me surpnses sprung upon him by others, the more likely he is to act as he has always acted, and think it is a clever new plan.”
Darkwind nodded, as if what she had just told him confirmed something he had thought himself. “What do you think he’s planning on doing with the proto-Gate when he captures it?”
“Oh, he will install it in his stronghold,” she said immediately. With no effort at all, she could picture him gloating over his new-won prize as he had gloated over so many in the past. “That is predictable, too. Probably in his study; he is jealous of his tilings of power and often will not put them where other mages may even see them. He will want such a thing as near to him as may be.”
“That would be a bad place to put a Gate,” Darkwind observed. “A Gate works both ways - ”
“No, I suspect he will try to anchor it in a stone or crystal of some kind, rather than as a Gate,” she said, trying to remember if Falconsbane had ever indicated that he knew how to make the Greater Gates. “I am not sure. I believe he knows how to make a Gate but has not the strength. I think he would rather create something to use as a power-pole, to bring in more lines, if he
can.”
“What, use it to create his own kind of Heartstone?” Dark-wind asked in surprise, and was even more surprised when she nodded. “Make a Heartstone like a Hawkbrother?”
“It seems amazing that he should imitate you,” she told him earnestly, “but he has seen your success. He is not good at creating things. He is good at twisting them to his own ends, or warping them to suit his fancies, but not at creating them. He will imitate you, therefore, and tell himself that he is making something entirely new.”
“So, whatever he tries is going to have a focus,” Darkwind mused. “The personal link will have to be taken from Firesong, of course - but if he has to have a focus, he has to have something physical. Focus; his ideal choice would be something shaped the way the proto-Gate Looks in the halfworld. And we can attack that.”
“What are you thinking of?” Skif asked, sounding just a little belligerent and definitely protective.
Darkwind looked up at the tall Herald, and shook his head. “You are not going to care for my notions,” he said. “No, you are not going to like them at all.”
“Probably not,” Skif agreed. “On the other hand, I don’t like the idea of Falconsbane with all that power.”
“Nor do I.” Darkwind turned back to Nyara. “Before I broach any ideas, there’s something I really need to know, both from you, and from your friend in the sheath.” He nodded at Need. “Do you think you can hold out against your father’s control now? I mean in a face-to-face confrontation; can you hold against his will?”
:Good question, boy. My vote is yes - but she won’t unless she believes she can.:
Nyara looked deeply and carefully into his eyes. “I think so,” she replied after a long moment of thought. “I know that I can for some time if we are not near one another. I think that I can, if we are not in physical contact. If he had me in his hands -” She shmgged, trying to hide her fear, but Darkwind saw it and sympathized with it anyway. “I would have no chance with him, if I were in his hands. But the old means by which he controlled me no longer work. He tried upon me what he perfected upon your father. Because none of this was perfected, there were places where Need and I could break what he had done to me. He would have to work magic - perhaps even cast actual spells - to get new controls on me. And just at the moment he might not realize that.”
“Part of the way he reacts in a typical fashion when he feels himself under pressure?” Darkwind asked.
She nodded. “Especially if he were distracted or busy,” she told him. “The more distractions he has, the more likely he is to revert to what has worked in the past.”
:Absolutely,: Need agreed. :Half the reason I was able to help her so much was because I was watching Kethra Heal your father. His problems are a superior copy of hers. We‘ve thrown Falconsbane off-balance by destroying the Heart-stone, and he’s reacting predictably, by trying to steal the power it harbored. There are a dozen other things he could do with it, or about it, but instead, he’s doing exactly what I would have predicted for him.:
“I could prolong the moment that he thinks he still has me controlled by feigning it,” Nyara offered, trembling a little inside from fear. “Need might be able to help with that.”
Nyara watched Darkwind turn all that over in his mind - and she wondered. One plan, with a fair likelihood of success, had already occurred to her. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing that she was. She had been thinking about something like this for some time - fearing the idea, yet knowing it had logic to it. And knowing that if she were asked, she would follow through with it. Skif was most definitely not going to like it.
Chapter Twenty-two
Falconsbane stepped back and surveyed his work, nodding with satisfaction. He had done very well, given the short notice he’d had. And it had been at minimal cost to himself. There were, after all, two ways to create power-poles. The first way was to produce the power from yourself; much in the same way that a Gate was created. That was not the ideal way to proceed, so far as he was concerned.
The other way was to induce it from the body of another - as skilled and powerful a mage as one could subdue. The drawing out of the power would kill the mage in question, of course; there was no way to avoid that. A pity, but there it was.
Then, given the plan he had created, one needed to fix the pole in place - that required another mage. Fixing the pole absolutely required the life of that mage, this time by sacrifice, although Falconsbane had managed to crush the man’s heart with no outward signs and no blood spilt. It would have been a pity to stain the new carpets.
And lastly, in accordance with the plan, he had needed the full power of a human life and the full power of a mage to establish a web of energy linking the power-pole he had created with every possible point in his territory. Naturally that had required a third mage.
It was possible to do all of that from his own resources, but that would have required exhausting himself completely. That wasn’t acceptable at this point. Doing it through others was far less efficient; it took three mages to create what he could have accomplished alone.
The problem with the second method was, of course, that the mages in question would not survive the operation. Which was why the bodies of three of Falconsbane’s former servants were littering the floor of his study. If he had more time, he probably would have done it the hard way, through himself. It was difficult finding even ordinary servants; mages were doubly hard to acquire.
He had thought long and hard on the best way to go about claiming the power-locus. He had not been aided by all the distractions taking place in and around his lands. The black riders were everywhere, and although they seldom did anything, they rattled his guards and made even his fortress servants nervous. Strange birds had been seen in the forest around his stronghold; and now the woods were reputedly haunted as well, by amorphous, ghostlike shapes and faint, dancing lights.
He had decided at last to set up a power-pole as exactly like the waiting Stone as possible, and anchor that within an enormous crystal-cluster he had brought from one of his storage rooms and set up in his study. When he drew the power-locus in near enough, it would snap into the power-pole as it had been intended to do at the Bird-Fools’ new Heartstone. Devising the plan had taken much delving into his oldest memories, and he had been a little disturbed at how much he had forgotten. Too many times for comfort, he’d been forced to return to his library and search through his oldest books. In the end, he’d taken scraps of memory, scraps of old knowledge, and a great deal of guessing.
The difference between what he intended to do and what the Tayledras would have done was that when it snapped into the waiting vessel here, he would be standing between and would be linked to the crystal. When the power-locus and the power-pole merged into one, he would be part of them as well.
It was as inventive in its way as anything that Tayledras Adept had tried; he was quite certain of that. He was thoroughly pleased with his own cleverness. Oh, it was dangerous, surely; the mages who had been sacrificed to give the plan life had advised against it even before they knew they were going to be sucked dry of life and power to fuel it.
“You’ll be incinerated by that much power,” Atus had protested.
“If you aren’t incinerated, you’ll go mad. No one can be part of a Heartstone!” Renthan had told him.
Preadeth had only shaken his head wordlessly, and cast significant looks at the others.
They thought he was insane even to try it - and at that moment, when he caught them exchanging glances and possibly thoughts, he had known who his sacrificial calves were going to be.
They had doubtless been considering revolt - or at least, escape. Escape would mean they might even consider going to the Tayledras with what they knew.
It was just as well he had another use for them. It would have been a pity to kill them outright and waste all that potential.
Using his subordinates to supply the power instead of himself was the last element he had needed to
make the plan reasonable as well as possible. It meant that at the end of the Working, he was still standing and still capable of acting, instead of unconscious and needing days of rest. Even at that, he was exhausted when he was done.
He sank down on his couch and considered calling in a fourth man and draining him as well, but discarded the idea. It would cause enough trouble that he had killed three of his underlings. There were those who might read it as a desperation measure. It was, on the whole, a bad idea to kill anyone other than a slave or one of the lower servants. It made everyone else unhappy - and inclined to think about defection. Unhappy servants were inefficient servants. They should know the taste of the whip - but also know that it was only there in extreme circumstances, and that they could bring that whip onto their own backs by their own actions. He lay back on the soft black velvet of the couch, and considered his next few moves. First - find a reason for the deaths of his underlings that would disturb the others the least. The mages in particular were a touchy lot; they tended to think of themselves as allies rather than underlings. They were given to occasional minor revolt. It would not do to give them a reason for one of those revolts - not now, when he could ill-afford the energy to subdue them.
Should he claim they had died aiding him in some great work? That was a little too close to the truth, and the next time he called for help in magic-working, he might trigger one of those mass defections. He did not, as a rule, lose even one of his assistants, much less three of them. The mages weren’t stupid; they might well guess that “aiding” in a great work meant becoming a sacrifice to it.
The deep red light flooding in from the window was very soothing to his eyes, and eased the pain at his temples, pain caused by nothing more than overstressing himself. Both temples throbbed, there was a place at the base of his skull that felt as if someone was pressing a dull dagger into it, and sharp stabbing pains over each eye whenever he moved his head too quickly. Hard to think, when one was in pain. . .
Winds of Change Page 45