Winds Of Change v(mw-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  He discovered there was more-much more.

  His outriders had been waiting for him; they had come in to him, all bearing the same story. Black-clad riders on black horses, haunting the edges of his domain. Riders who did nothing; simply appeared, watching for a moment, as if making certain that they had been seen, and vanished again. Riders who left no mark in the snow; whose faces could not be seen behind their veilings of black cloth.

  His mages had come to him with more news of the same ilk, hundreds of tiny changes that had occurred while he was dealing that aborted attack to k'sheyna. Along and inside all of his borders, there were tiny pinprick-upsettings of his magic. Traps had been sprung, but had caught nothing, and there was not even a hint of what had sprung them. Leylines that had been diverted to his purposes had returned to their courses, but they went to nothing specific nor any new power-poles. Areas that he had fouled to use for breeding his creatures had been cleansed. Yet there was no pattern to it, no plan. Some lines had been left alone; traps side-by-side showed one sprung, the other still set. Areas near to the Vale had been left fouled, while others, farther away, had been cleansed.

  He snarled into the howling wind. He hated random things! He hated fools who worked with no plans in mind, and changes that occurred with no warning! And most of all, he hated, despised, things that happened for no apparent reason!

  Every one of those pinpricks had taken away his order, interfered with his careful plans-and left chaos behind. And all to no purpose he could see!

  He shouted into the night, and let the wind carry his anger away, let the cold chill his rage until it came within the proper, controllable bounds again. How long he stood there, he was not certain, only that after a time he knew that he could descend into his stronghold again, and be in no danger of destroying anything necessary.

  He dismissed the stormwinds; without his will behind them, the winds faded and died away, leaving only the snow still falling from the darkened, cloud-covered night sky.

  He opened the door into the warmth and light of the staircase and found one of his outriders waiting there for him.

  He snarled and clenched his fists at his side; this was more of that news, he knew it, and he wanted so badly to maim the bearer of it that h~ shook with the effort to control himself.

  The man's face was white as paper; he trembled with such fear that he was incapable of speech. He held out an intricately carved black box to his master, a box hardly bigger than the palm of his hand.

  Falconsbane took it and waited for the man to force the words past his fear to tell his master where this trinket of carved wood had come from. But when the man failed utterly to get anything more than an incoherent hiss past his clenched teeth, Falconsbane ruthlessly seized control of his mind with yet another spell, and tore the story from him.

  It only took a moment to absorb, mind-to-mind, but what he learned quelled his anger far more effectively than the wind had.

  His hand clutched convulsively on the box as the tale unfolded, and he left the man collapsed upon the stairs in a trembling heap, ignoring whatever damage he had done to the outrider's mind. He took the stairs two at a time back to the safety and security of his newly-cleaned study; there was no sign of where the dead slave had been except a wide wet spot. And only there, with all his protections about him, did he use a tiny spell to open the tiny box from arm's length.

  If this was a rational, ordered universe, it would contain something meant to cripple or kill him.

  He held his shields about him, waiting.

  Nothing happened.

  The box contained, cradled in black, padded suede, a tiny figurine carved of shiny, black onyx.

  The figure of a perfectly formed black horse, rearing, and no bigger than his thumbnail.

  There was no scent of magic upon it-no trace of who or what had made or sent it. Although he knew what had delivered it, if not who it was from.

  One of the black riders.

  He retreated to his newly-covered couch and held the delicate little carving to the light, pondering what he had ripped from his servant's mind.

  This particular outrider had seen these black-clad riders three times before this, but always they had vanished into the forest as soon as they knew they had been seen, leaving not even hoofprints behind. But this time had been different. This time he had seen the rider cleave a tree with a sword blow, and leave something atop the stump. The rider sheathed the sword and slipped into the shadows, like another shadow himself. When the outrider had reached the spot, he discovered this box.

  And it weighted down one other thing. A slip of paper, that had burned to ash in his hand as soon as he had read it. A slip of paper bearing the name of his Master, Mornelithe Falconsbane, in the careful curved letters of Tradespeech.

  As if there had been any doubt whatsoever who this was meant for-He turned the figurine over and over, staring at it. There was nothing here to identify it or the box, with its stylized geometric carvings, as coming from any particular land or culture. Was it a warning, or a gift?

  If a gift, what did it mean? If a warning-who were these riders, who had sent them, and what did they want?

  Skif and Nyara talked idly about the chase; this rabbit they were dressing out had been far more trouble than it was worth, but Nyara's capture of it was as worthy of admiration as any hawk's stoop. Wintermoon was gently cleaning a deep scratch one of the dyheli had suffered, several feet from the two of them.

  Nyara had reentered their lives by simply coming into camp and waiting to be discovered. They'd found her between the two dyheli when they awoke, sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest and the sword Need at her feet. She looked different now-more human, and with sharply-defined muscles. She also moved with purpose rather than slinking like a cat; she had visibly undergone many changes, all of which served to fascinate Skif further.

  There was no sign of any trouble, but suddenly Cymry's head shot up, and her eyes went wide and wild, with the whites showing all around them. Her body went from relaxed to tense; she stood with all four legs braced, and there was no doubt in Skif's mind what she sensed.

  Danger. Terrible danger. Something was happening.

  Skif stood and put one hand on her shoulder to steady her, as Nyara's face went completely blank. Nyara leapt to her feet and stared off in the same direction as Cymry, her own eyes mirroring a fear that Skif recognized only too well.

  He felt nothing, but then, if it was magic that alerted them, he wouldn't. But he recognized what direction they were both staring in.

  The Vale-where Elspeth was.

  He tried to Mindtouch his Companion, but all of her attention was on the danger she had sensed. It was Need's mind-voice that growled in the back of his head, as he tried to break through Cymry's preoccupation.

  "Leave her alone, boy. She's talking to Gwena. there's big trouble back with your bird-loving friends." He dared a tentative thought in Need's direction, waiting for an instant rebuff. He still had no idea what Need thought of him, beyond the few things she had condescended to say to him. "What kind of trouble?

  Something involving us?" The sword hesitated a moment. "Hmm. I'd say so. Your kitten's sire just tried to flatten the whole Vale. And I think-yes. No doubt. There's been a death." Before Skif could panic, the sword continued. "Not Elspeth; not Darkwind.

  More, I can't tell you. there's some shamanic magic mixed in with the rest, and damned if I can read it." Wintermoon stared at all of them with the impatient air of a man ready to strangle someone if he didn't get an explanation soon. Skif didn't blame him, and he broke off communication with the blade to tell the Hawkbrother what little Need had been able to tell him. The name of Mornelithe Falconsbane got his immediate attention.

  "Falconsbane! But I thought-"

  "We all thought-or, we didn't think," Skif replied, trying to make his thoughts stop spinning in circles. "We just assumed. Not a good idea where magic is concerned." Or where Falconsbane is concerned. Next time I won't believe
he's dead until I burn the body myself and sow the ashes with salt.

  "If there is trouble, we must return, with all speed. And it must be with Nyara or without her, for we cannot delay to argue," Wintermoon said firmly. "I had rather it were 'with' but I shall not force her." The mention of her name seemed to wake Nyara from her trance. "Of course we go, night-hunter," she replied. Her eyes still looked a little unfocused, but her voice was firm enough. "And I go with you. I know too much about my father to remain outside and watch your people struggle to match him again. I shall not hide while he tries to destroy your Clan, hoping he will miss me as he concentrates on you." She shook her head, then, and hesitated, looking fully into Skif's eyes.

  "If I had a choice, I would tell you this when we are alone, ashke," she said softly. "But I think that Wintermoon must hear this so he can bear witness if need be." Skif tensed, wondering what she was going to say to him. Things had seemed so promising a few moments ago.

  "I care for you, Outlander," she said with quiet intensity. "More than I had ever realized when I saw your face this morn. I would like-many things-and most of all, to share my life with you. But you and I can do nothing until I come to terms with my father. There is much that I have not told you of him-and myself. It must be dealt with." Skif had seen such looks as he saw in her eyes more than once, before he became a Herald-and after, among some of the refugeees from Ancar's depredations. He saw it in the eyes of a woman who spoke of her father, and horrors between them.

  He knew. He knew of many things that decent people would only think of as horrible nightmares, and deny that they truly happened. He knew the sordid tales that could be hidden behind those bleak eyes. She didn't even have to begin; he knew before she started. And he blamed her no more for what had been done to her than he would have blamed a tree sundered by lightning.

  She was all the more beautiful for her strength.

  Maybe it was just that he was too busy wanting to hold her and tell her that nothing in her past could make him want her any less. Falconsbane was dismissed from any redemption in his mind; to him he rated no more thoughts, not even hate-as his friend Wintermoon had taught him, such emotions can cloud purpose. Maybe that purpose was too important for him to have any room left for anger, now. That might change if he ever actually saw Falconsbane again, but that was the way he felt this moment.

  All things could change. If he were the same person he was only a few years ago, he'd have already been sharpening knives, plotting revenge on Falconsbane; now, simply eliminating the Adept was more important.

  Revenge seemed foolish somehow, it would not help Nyara at all. How strange, that after a life like his, revenge seemed hollow compared to simple justice.

  Nyara deserved far more consideration than her father.

  He didn't even think about the sword's propensity to eavesdrop, until she spoke to him.

  "Well, bless your heart, boy-I'm beginning to think there's hope for you yet." Need's harsh mind-voice rattled in his head as she chuckled. "You are all right! Hellfires, I'd even be willing to nominate you as an honorary Sister!"

  He felt his ears redden, as Nyara looked at him curiously "Uh-thank you," he said simply, not wanting to offend the blade by adding I think.

  "Tell her, boy. Don't go into detail, keep it short and simple, but tell her.

  She needs to know."

  "Look, Nyara-" he said haltingly, wishing he could say half of what he wanted to. "I-I love you; I guess you've figured that out, but I thought I'd better say it. There. Nothing's going to change that. I'm not the picture of virtue-or innocence-I've seen more than you might think. I've spent time on Ancar's Border. I've seen girls-women-who've had pretty bad things happen to them. Who've been-I don't know. I guess you could say they've been betrayed by the parents who should have protected them. I know what you mean. You and I can't do anything about us until we get him out of our lives."

  "A little confused, boy, but I think she got the gist of it. I'll have a little talk with her and lay things out for her later." Again, that gravelly chuckle.

  "I'll let her know you weren't just making pretty talk; you've seen thangs as rough as she's lived through. no ever would have figured me for playing matchmaker. And at my age!" Nyara only stared at him in dumb surprise, clutching the sword to her chest beneath her cloak of fur. But then one hand crept off the scabbard and moved down; searched for his and found it.

  She gave him the ghost of a smile then. "Either you are lying, which Need says not-you are a saint, which she also says not-or you are as great a fool as I." She shook her head, but her eyes never left his.

  "Well, then-let's be fools together," he whispered, staring down into her bottomless eyes. "I'm willing to work at it if you are."

  Commotion at the entrance end of the Vale caught Darkwind's attention and broke into his brooding. Darkness had fallen some time ago, but he had not bothered to call any lights. Part of him still wanted to be angry with Firesong-angry at someone-but the rest of him knew that the Adept was punishing himself already. Anything he said or did would be superfluous, and likely cause much harm.

  The disturbance was enough to let him know that a larger party than usual had crossed the Veil, and since the second shift of scouts had already gone out, this was not something expected. Something unexpected today could only mean trouble.

  He sent a tentative inquiry to Vree, and the answer he received sent him shooting down the stairs of his ekele like a slung stone.

  He met the tiny parade just past the first hot pool, and when h~ saw who had met Wintermoon's little troupe, as well as who was riding with it, he thought that he was dreaming.

  The Outlander Skif rode his white Companion. Beside him to his right was Wintermoon on one of the two dyheli stags that had gone out with them. But on the left hand of the Herald was the second stag, who also bore a rider, and that was what caused him to stare and question his sanity. Nyara sat astride the dyheli, as if she had always known how to ride. She was clad in a rough bearskin cloak, carrying the blade she had taken across her lap.

  Walking beside her, holding a mage-light to show the way and engaged in easy conversation with her, was Firesong.

  Wintermoon held up his hand, and they stopped long enough to dismount.

  The dyheli walked off, into the side of the Vale, where the Clan kept grazing and water for their kind. Firesong stepped back to allow Skif to aid Nyara from her mount, but then he fell in beside them, still deeply in conversation with both of them. Still more than a little stunned, Darkwind took his place beside his brother. Wintermoon thanked his mount and sent the stag on his way with a pat on the withers. Cymry walked ahead, but Darkwind had no doubt that she was following every word of Firesong's conversation.

  "Who in the name of all gods is that?" Wintermoon asked, after hearty greetings between the two brothers.

  "Firesong k'treva. Healing Adept. The Council let us send for help," Darkwind replied. "He's-"

  "Impressed by himself," Wintermoon completed. "But I'd guess that he must be something very special." He shook his head. "Brother, so much has happened to us since dawn this morning that I do not know where to begin."

  "Then let me," Darkwind suggested. "After the last time you came in, Elspeth and I were permitted to call for aid. Firesong is what we received. He was more than we expected. And yes-he is of such power and ability that this arrogance of his is little more than pardonable pride, and almost a game to him." .

  Wintermoon only snorted. "Perhaps. I would like to see him in a situation where his pretty face means nothing, and he only frightens with his power. Take away the things he was born with, and I will be prepared to admire his accomplishments. But then, I am a crude man.

  Magic has never much impressed me." Darkwind came so close to laughing that he choked, and gave his brother a quick embrace. "Nevertheless, he has been training me and the Outlanders."

  "He has been training you, between attempting to impress the Outlander-"

  " How am I to finish t
his tale?" Darkwind chided, then sobered.

  "Listen, there were ill things happened here, today. We were to attempt something small upon the Stone-when-"

  "When Falconsbane raised his ugly head and attempted to foul the Vale," Wintermoon interrupted. "Do not fear to alarm me. That much we knew. Nyara felt the taint of her father, as did the Companion, and the sword knew where and that there had been a death. She said she did not think it was someone she knew. Whose death, then?"

  "Tre'valen, the Shin'a'in shaman," Darkwind said, sorrow rising in him again. Wintermoon's eyes went wide with surprise. "He-the beast struck at our father, Wintermoon. Firesong shielded the Stone-no, do not interrupt me this time-had he not, none of us would be here to greet you. You would have returned to a smoking hole, and that I pledge you. I could do nothing, nor Elspeth; we were not quick enough."

  "But-Father obviously lives-was it Tre'valen that shielded him, then?" Wintermoon shook his head, amazed. "Surely though he is-wasa shaman, he could not have protected Father against the beast in his wrath!" Darkwind nodded at everything his brother said, and was no little amazed at how much Wintermoon guessed correctly. "Firesong thinks that he was not alone-that it was he and-and Dawnfire together who shielded Father." Now it was Darkwind's turn to shake his head. "He does not know what happened to them, besides that Tre'valen is dead.