An’desha shook his head, puzzled. How could this mean anything to his situation?
“Ancar wars upon Valdemar and plans another attempt to crush them even now. This is what he wishes Falconsbane’s powers and teachings for, since he has been unable to defeat their defenses in the past.” Tre’valen also looked somewhere beyond An’desha, and he was just as statuelike. “He wishes to become a great emperor, a lord of many kingdoms, but Valdemar stands in his way, by an increasingly lesser margin. These folk we have shown you come to help defend Elspeth’s land. We will speak to them, through an intermediary that they trust, letting them know that Falconsbane has come to roost here.”
An’desha considered that for a moment, seeing something of what their reaction might be to that unwelcome information. “They will know that Falconsbane is their chiefest enemy. So—what am I to do in all of this? What is it that I can do for them that will help them defeat Ancar and Falconsbane? I can do nothing to prevent him from helping Ancar if he chooses.”
“Watch,” Dawnfire said immediately. “Delve the depths of Falconsbane’s memories. Learn all you can of him and of Ancar and Hulda and their plans. We will pass this on as well. You will be the spy that no one can possibly detect; the ideal agent, who is even privy to thoughts. Somewhere, in everything that you learn, there will be a way for your allies to defeat not only Ancar, but Falconsbane as well.”
But that did not necessarily mean that they would be able to help him . . . and he noticed a curious omission. Neither Dawnfire nor Tre’valen had said anything about mentioning his existence to these “allies”. . . .
And, feeling a little alarmed, he said so. “You say nothing of me—”
Now Tre’valen looked away, and it was Dawnfire who said, with a peculiar expression of mingled apology and determination, “We cannot tell them of your existence, although we will inform the intermediary, who suspects it already. If we let the others know that you live in Falconsbane’s body, they might hesitate to—”
Here she broke off, and An’desha continued, bleakly, with the inescapable. “They might hesitate if it becomes necessary to slay Falconsbane, even if there is no other choice. Is that what you wished to say?”
“The intermediary will know,” Tre’valen pointed out, but a little hesitantly. “She can judge best if they should know as well . . . but at the moment, she thinks not.”
She thought not, hmm? An’desha pondered that for a moment. How likely was it that these “allies” would come face-to-face with Falconsbane?
But at least three of them were Adepts. When was it necessary for an Adept to come face-to-face with an enemy in order to attack him?
“An’desha, we pledged you that we would do our best to free you and save you. We did not mean to ‘free you and save you’ by slaying you,” Dawnfire said, quickly. “You know we cannot lie to you in this. You have already accepted the risk, have you not?”
He sighed. He had. And word once given could not be taken back without becoming an oathbreaker. They were quite right, and besides, what choice did he have? He either faced a lifetime—presumably a long one—of being a prisoner in his own body, forced to watch Falconsbane commit his atrocities and being unable to do anything to prevent them, or he could retreat into his “safe haven” in Falconsbane’s mind, make himself blind and deaf to all that passed while Falconsbane was awake, and live a kind of prison existence in which he would still know what Falconsbane was doing, even if he refused to actually see it.
Neither was any kind of a life; a living hell was more like it. He had a chance now. . . .
And he certainly did not want Falconsbane making free with his body anymore. The creature must be stopped.
“No matter what happens, we will be with you,” Tre’valen said softly.
That decided him. At least his loneliness and isolation were at an end. These two were friends already; it would be no bad thing to come to an ending, if it were in the company of true friends.
“Well, then,” he said, steeling himself against the horrid memories he must once again face in order to pass the information on to his protectors. “I must begin my part of the bargain. Here is what I have learned of Ancar. . . .”
It took a surprisingly short time to relate, really. It was astonishing how simply sordid those terrible acts Ancar had recited became, when they were told, not to an avid audience of Mornelithe Falconsbane, but to the impassive witnesses of the two Avatars. They seemed neither disturbed nor impressed; they simply nodded from time to time as if making special note of some point. He added his impressions of what Falconsbane had thought, once he came to the end of that recitation. It had not been flattering, for although Ancar had done his best to shock the Adept, Mornelithe had not been impressed either. He had, in fact, considered Ancar to be little more than a yapping pup, barking his importance to an old, bored dragon.
“Things could be worse,” Dawnfire commented, when he came to the end of the recitation. “Falconsbane is still far more interested in regaining control of himself and gaining control of the situation than he is in helping Ancar. He does not know that the Valdemarans are returning to their home, so his thirst for revenge has not yet been awakened against Valdemar. And I suspect he will be investigating this woman Hulda as a possible ally against Ancar, simply because he is not the kind of creature to leave any opportunity without at least looking into it. And meanwhile, Ancar has learned nothing useful from him, which is a good thing, and he intends to withhold real information for as long as possible, which is even better.”
An’desha sighed. “Better than you know. The things that Falconsbane has done to gain his powers—”
He shuddered without really intending to. Tre’valen touched his shoulder with sympathy. “I can soften those memories, if you wish,” he said quietly. “Make them less—immediate. Give you some detachment.”
“Give you the real sense that they are past, and there is nothing that you can do to help or hinder now—but that you can learn from them to prevent such things in the future,” Dawnfire added, when he looked up in hope. “You must never forget that those terrible things were done to other living creatures, An’desha. When those poor victims become only icons, when they lose their power to move you, you will have lost something of your soul.”
“I will only see to it that there is that distance,” Tre’valen said, with a glance at Dawnfire as if he was amused by her preaching. “Your heart is sound, An’desha, and I have no fear that the plight of others will ever cease to move you. If that is what you want—”
“Please!” he cried, and with a touch, some of the feeling of sickness left him, and some of the feeling of having been rolled in filth until he would never be rid of the taste and smell and feel of it.
It was a blessed, blessed relief. He almost felt clean again, and his nausea subsided completely. Now those memories he had stolen from the Adept were at one remove . . . as if they were things from very distant childhood, clear, but without the terrible immediacy.
“As if they belonged to someone else, and not to you,” Tre’valen said, with a slight smile. “Which they properly do, An’desha. The problem is that they come from your mind, and not Falconsbane’s, and that is what made it seem to you as if they were yours.”
He sighed, and closed his eyes. “Can you—” he began, and then realized that Tre’valen had already shown him what he needed to do to put any new memories at the same distance.
“You are a good pupil, An’desha,” Dawnfire said, a bare hint of teasing in her voice. “You are a credit to your teachers.”
He ducked his head shyly, but before he could reply, an internal tug warned him that he must return to the body he and Falconsbane shared before the Adept awakened.
The others understood without a word; they both touched him again, briefly, filling him with that incredible warmth and caring, and then they were gone.
And he closed his eyes, and sought without, and within—
And opened the very physical e
yes of Mornelithe Falconsbane, who still slept in his heavily-cushioned chair. Without even consciously thinking of doing so, he had implemented the new lesson even as he returned to the body. Now he was very much in control, although he must make certain that he did nothing abruptly, or made any motion or sound that might wake the Adept.
Still, Falconsbane slept very heavily—and people often walked, talked, and did many other things in their sleep without awakening. An’desha should at least have a limited freedom.
For the first time in years, he had full command of all of his body. He now wore it, rather than being carried by it as a kind of invisible passenger. Senses seemed much sharper now; he became aware of vague aches and pains, of the fact that he was painfully thin, most of the body’s resources having been devoured in that terrible time between the Gates. Small wonder Falconsbane ate much, slept much, and tired easily!
The warning that had brought him back was thirst; alive and growing quickly. Moving slowly and carefully, he reached out for the watered wine on the table beside him, poured himself a goblet, and drank it down. He then settled back again with a feeling of triumph. He had done that, not Falconsbane—and for the first time, he had done so without feeling Falconsbane would wake while he moved!
An’desha marveled at the feel of the goblet in his hands—his hands, at last, his arms and body. And now, he had many, many things to think about. He did not feel up to another swim in the cesspool of Falconsbane’s memories. Not now.
Later, when Falconsbane truly slept; that would be time enough. But for now—now he had another task in front of him. He had felt very young, a few moments ago. He had been very young, a few moments ago.
It was time, finally, to grow up.
By his own will.
Chapter Eight
Elspeth’s head felt full-to-bursting, the way it had when she first began learning mage-craft from Need and Darkwind. Or, for that matter, the way it used to feel back when she was still a Herald-trainee, and had been cramming information on laws and customs into her memory as quickly as she could. She had a wealth of information bubbling like a teapot in her mind, and she still hadn’t sorted it out yet. But she would; she would. It was all a matter of time.
For now, the best thing was to make as simple a plan as possible and go from there—knowing that even simple plans could go awry. First we go through the Gate, then Vanyel dispels his protections on Valdemar so that mages can use magic without going mad, then we pelt for Haven as fast as we can. Seems simple enough. But Elspeth was not inclined to think it would stay simple for very long. There were too many things that could complicate their situation.
Just after the vrondi-watch is dispelled—that’s when Valdemar will be at its most vulnerable. I’d better ask Vanyel if he can make the eastern border protections go down last.
But risk was part of life. She went through some other things that would be trouble. Communication, for one. She was passing plans on to Gwena, who relayed them to Rolan, who presumably told Talia—a complicated chain in which there were any number of chances for a break in that communication.
They were to return to the Ashkevron estate. Right there, possible problems arose.
Supposedly there were already two Heralds waiting for them at the Ashkevron family manor, who supposedly knew everything that Elspeth had passed on to Gwena and Rolan. They were expecting the Gate, were to have warned the family what was coming.
But just how much were the Heralds really told, how much did they understand, and how much were they able to get the Ashkevrons to believe?
Even if they knew all about the Gate, they might not understand what it was. And as for the Ashkevrons believing in magic—that in itself was problematic. Elspeth had on occasion crossed horns with some of the stubborn Ashkevron human oxen, and she knew very well that having been warned and actually doing something about it were two different things.
They were still horse breeders, something that came as no real surprise to Vanyel when she had mentioned it. :They always have been rather set in tradition,: was all he had said. He called it “tradition,” but she and the Queen had another thing or two to call it, when Ashkevrons showed up at court to protest some edict or other simply because “We’ve never done it that way, and we’ve never had a problem.”
Whether it was sticking younglings with needles dipped in cowpox sores to prevent the Great Pox, or creating a common grazing ground for those folk with single livestock (so that the beasts were not inclined to break free of their tiny yards and roam off to larger and presumably greener pastures), if it was something new and different, the Ashkevrons usually opposed it. Most of them stayed on or near the family property even after marriage, although they were no longer as prolific as they had been in Vanyel’s day. Most of them were stolid and stubborn, and had to be shown why something worked, in detail, and with exhaustive explanations, before they would return home to implement it.
There were no Heralds in this generation of Ashkevrons, although there were two Ashkevron officers in the Guard, one apprentice Bard, and one very ancient Healer. And although the stolid Ashkevrons were always mystified that anyone would ever want to leave home, thanks to Vanyel, it was now a tradition (and so, unquestioned) that if you didn’t feel that you fit in, you left.
Still, Elspeth could just imagine what the two Heralds that had been dragged off their circuits to meet them had gone through, trying to explain to the Ashkevrons just what, exactly, was going to happen. Most likely they themselves didn’t even understand it!
The brown-haired, brown-eyed, huskily-built current Lord would blink in puzzlement and say, “You say they’re gonna be a-comin’ through the chapel door? How in Havens they get in there?” And the Herald in question would have to scratch his head and answer that he really didn’t know how, but that they were really going to come through that door—
And then, when the Gate opened—
Gods, it would be a royal mess . . . she only hoped that everyone would at least keep clear long enough for the Companions to get through. And then the gryphons, both young and old. . . .
Just thinking about what could go wrong gave Elspeth a headache. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temple, then opened them again to meet Darkwind’s concerned glance. She smiled slightly, and he squeezed her hand in reassurance.
Ready or not, it was all about to become moot. They gathered once again in the clearing in front of the cave-mouth that had first served as their portal to Vanyel’s forest—or his current body, it could be argued. Vanyel’s image stood to one side of the Gate he was creating, so thinned and tenuous that he looked like nothing more than a human-shaped wisp of mist. Almost all of his power was going into the building of this Gate—a Gate to a place so far away that Firesong admitted he didn’t think anyone had the temerity to try such a distance. The only feat that dwarfed it was the one that had brought them here, over an even longer distance. But the energy forming that Gate had come from two Adepts, Vanyel and Firesong; this was coming from Vanyel alone.
Then again, Vanyel had resources no merely human mage could command. . . .
The cave-mouth darkened, blackened—and just as suddenly, gave out on a stone-walled corridor, lit with oil lanterns, filled with strange people gaping in slack-jawed amazement.
“It’s up! Go now!” Firesong shouted. Gwena and Cymry didn’t need any urging. They all knew that the strain of this undertaking, even on a being such as Vanyel, was tremendous; he would only be able to hold the Gate open for a limited time.
The Companions bolted across the portal, hooves kicking up great clods of earth from the soft turf. Elspeth and Skif were right on their heels, followed by Darkwind and Firesong with their bondbirds clinging to their shoulders for dear life. Then came Nyara, Firesong’s dyheli, and Rris, and bringing up the rear, the four gryphons.
Gwena and Cymry simply kept moving as they passed through, recovering from the disorientation of Gating much more quickly than Elspeth could. Sound did not travel across the
barrier of the Gate, and as Elspeth dove through, she saw mouths moving as if people were shouting, although there was nothing to hear.
She passed into blackness, and through that moment of extreme dizziness that made her feel as if she was falling forever and would never touch the ground. There was nothing to concentrate on; no contact even with her own body. She could be screaming and waving her arms around, and she would never know—and if something went wrong with the Gate, wouldn’t she be left that way forever?
But her momentum carried her forward, out of the complete silence of the Void and into pandemonium. People shouted, hooves clattered on the stone of the corridor, and all of it echoed so much it made all the sounds into meaningless noise. She glanced around, her eyes still blurred, trying to make sense out of the confusion.
She needn’t have bothered. By the time she and Darkwind staggered onto the stone of the Ashkevron corridor and shook their heads clear, the Companions had shoved everyone out of the way and had made enough room even for the gryphons.
Even so, there wasn’t a lot of room. There was a kind of anteroom in front of the chapel door, and that was what the Companions had cleared. Now there was a horde of people jammed into the corridor itself, beyond the anteroom, all of them jabbering. A strange, faintly unpleasant smell struck Elspeth’s nostrils, and she sneezed, wondering what the odd, heavy odor was. Then she remembered; it was fish oil, used for lanterns. She hadn’t had fish oil lamps inflicted on her for nearly two years—no wonder the smell made her sneeze!
It appeared that their arrival had been deemed something of a carnival, and the Ashkevrons were always prone to pounce on an excuse to see a marvel. Everyone on the estate had turned out to see just what was supposed to happen.
Or at least, that was the way it seemed to Elspeth. There were three Heralds in the front of the mob, their Whites gleaming in the light from the lanterns, and not the two that she had been told would be here. She didn’t recognize any of them, not that she necessarily would; Field Heralds seldom came to Haven, and when they did, they would only be one more stranger in Whites to her. But she had hoped that at least one would be a friend; Jeri or Sherril, even Kero. Her heart sank a little, and she hoped she didn’t show her disappointment.
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