Winds of Fury

by Mercedes Lackey

  It worked. As Ancar recovered from his surprise, both at the information and at being spoken to as if he were a particularly stupid schoolboy, his face darkened with anger.

  “Well,” he snarled, just barely audible above the rumble of thunder, “If you can do something, then do it, and stop complaining!”

  His fingers writhed in a complicated mnemonic gesture, and Falconsbane felt some of the pressure on his powers easing a little. Only a little, but it was a start . . . a few of the coercions had been dropped. Ancar was not going to release him entirely, but the worst and most confining of the spells were gone.

  Without a word, he rose from his chair, and stalked toward the window. Throwing it open with a grandiose gesture, he let the storm come tearing into the room, blowing out all the candles, extinguishing the fire, and plastering his clothing to his body in a breath. He was chilled and soaked in no time, but he ignored the discomforts of both in favor of the impressive show he was creating. Lightning raced across the sky above him, and he flung his arms wide, narrowing his eyes against the pelting rain. A bit of power made his hands glow most convincingly. He didn’t need to make his hands glow, of course, but it made Ancar’s eyes widen with awe in such a satisfactory manner.

  He could have done everything from his comfortable chair, of course, without doing much more than lift a finger or two, but that would not have been dramatic enough. Ancar was stupid enough to be more impressed by dramatics than by results. That was probably why he had ended up with such inferior hirelings in the area of magic. Falconsbane did not need gestures to set his will twisting the forces of magic along the paths he chose. Falconsbane did not even need to close his eyes and drop into trance when the spell he wrought was a simple and familiar one.

  Falconsbane sent out his probes, riding the wind until he found the center of the storm, and found the corresponding knot of energy in the ley-lines. He could unknot it, of course, but he didn’t want to. Let Ancar’s land suffer a little more. Let him see what a weapon controlled weather could be. Seizing the knot of energy, he gave it a powerful shove, sending it farther down the line and taking the storm with it.

  Not too far, though. Just far enough from the capital and palace that it would not make his joints ache or interfere with his sleep tonight. He could not actually undo all the things that had caused the storm in his present state of coercion, and he did not think that Ancar would be inclined to release him completely just so that he could do so. If the fool asked him why he had not sent the storm into the skies of Valdemar, he would tell the boy that the King’s own spells were to blame, interfering with Falconsbane’s magic. That might convince him to release a few more of those coercions.

  Or perhaps he wouldn’t care that his farmers’ fields would be flooded, the crops rotting in the sodden earth. It didn’t much matter to Falconsbane, except as an example of how short-sighted Ancar was.

  The wind and rain died abruptly. As he opened his eyes, he saw with satisfaction that he had not lost his touch. Already the lightning had lessened and the storm was moving off, clouds fleeing into the distance so rapidly that it was obvious something had made them change their courses. In a candlemark or two, it would be dry and clear around the palace.

  Hopefully, this entire exercise had been showy enough to impress the young idiot. He turned to shrug at his captor. “Well,” he said. “There you have it.”

  Ancar was nodding wisely, his eyes a little wide as he tried unsuccessfully to cover his amazement. “Very good,” he said carelessly, still trying to cover his earlier slip. “I can see that you know what you are doing.”

  Falconsbane simply smiled, then returned to his chair. Now that those particular coercions were off, he relit the candles and the fire with a simple spell. And he noticed, with a twitch of contempt, that Ancar was as impressed by that as he had been by how quickly he had sent the storm away.

  “I trust that something brought you here other than a wish for my company,” he said, carefully keeping any hint of sarcasm from his voice. He gestured at the other chair beside the fire. “Pray, join me.”

  He was carefully calculating his insolence in being seated in the King’s presence to underscore the fact that he was, current conditions notwithstanding, the King’s equal. And it seemed to be working. Ancar did not say a word about his insulting behavior and, in fact, he took the proffered seat with something as near to humility as Ancar ever came.

  “Nothing important,” Ancar said airily. It was a lie, of course, and Falconsbane could read his real intentions as easily as if he could read the boy’s thoughts. Simple deductions, actually; he knew that Ancar had been reviewing progress—or lack of it—along the border of Valdemar. There had been messengers from that border this very day. Despite Ancar’s animosity toward Hulda, in this much he was still of one mind with the sorceress—his hatred of Valdemar. So that particular meeting was probably where Hulda had been this afternoon. It followed that he considered his options to have been exhausted, and now he wanted some help with that particular project from Mornelithe.

  “Ah, then since there is nothing in particular you wish to discuss, perhaps you might be willing to satisfy my own curiosity about something,” he said, silkily. “This Valdemar that troubles you—you can tell me something about the land? How did you choose to quarrel with them in the first place?” He studied his own fingernails intently. “It would seem to me that you have been placing an inordinate amount of effort into attempting to conquer them, when so far as I can see, they are fairly insignificant. They have never attacked you, and they always stop at their own border, even when they are winning. Trying to conquer them seems, at least to an outsider, to be a losing proposition.”

  He looked up, to see Ancar flushing a little, his eyes showing a hint of anger. But the King did not reply.

  He smiled. “And if I understand everything I have heard, now you plan to try for them again. What is the point here? Are you so addicted to defeat that you cannot wait to give them another opportunity to deliver it to you?” As Ancar flushed an even deeper shade, he continued, taunting the boy with the litany of his failures, gleaned from questioning servants, courtiers, and some of Ancar’s other mages. “First you attack them before you are ready, and you naturally suffer a humiliating defeat. Then you attack them without ever bothering to discover if they had found some military allies and suffer a worse defeat. Your people are leaking across the border into their land on a daily basis, and you cannot even manage to insinuate a spy into their midst! Really, Ancar, I should think by now you would know enough to leave these people alone!”

  Ancar was nearly purple with anger—and yet he held his peace and his tongue. Ancar did not want to talk about it. Now that was a curious combination. . . .

  And to Falconsbane’s mind, that spelled “obsession.”

  When one was obsessed with something, logic did not enter into the picture.

  When one was obsessed with something, one was often blind to all else. An obsession was a weakness, a place into which a clever man could place the point of his wit, and pry until the shell cracked. . . .

  As Ancar sat silently fuming, Falconsbane made some rapid mental calculations, adding up all the information he had been gleaning from courtiers, servants, and underling mages. Ancar was a young male, and any young male hates to be defeated, but that defeat must be doubly bitter coming as it did from the hands of females. He had failed to conquer Valdemar, failed to defeat its Queen, failed to get his hands on its Princess. He had failed a military conquest not once, but twice.

  But that was by no means all, as Falconsbane’s probes had revealed. He had tried, with no success whatsoever, to infiltrate a spy into the ranks of the Heralds. The only agents he had in Valdemar itself were relatively ineffective and powerless ones, placed among the lowest of the merchants and peasantry. Mercenary soldiers under yet another female leader had thwarted every single assassination attempt he had made, even the ones augmented by magic.

  In short, the Queen
and her nearest and dearest seemed to have some kind of charmed existence. They prevailed against all odds, as if the very gods were on their side. Their success mocked Ancar and all his ambitions, and without a doubt, it all maddened him past bearing.

  So Falconsbane thought.

  Until Ancar finally spoke, and proved to him that in this one respect, he had underestimated the young King.

  “I must expand,” he said, slowly, his flush cooling. “I am using up the resources of Hardorn at a rapid rate. I need gold to pay my mages, grain to feed my armies, a hundred things that simply must be brought in from outside. I cannot go South—perhaps you will not believe me, but the Karsites are the fiercest fighters you could ever imagine in your wildest nightmares. They are religious, you see. They believe that if they die in the defense of their land, they rise straight to the feet of their God . . . and if they take any of the enemies of their God with them, they rise to his right hand.”

  Falconsbane nodded, a tiny spark of respect kindling for the King. So he understood the power a religion could hold over an enemy? Mornelithe would never have credited him with that much insight. Perhaps there was more to the boy than the Adept had assumed. “Indeed,” he said in reply. “There is no more deadly an enemy than a religious fanatic. They are willing to die and desperate to take you with them.”

  “Precisely,” Ancar sighed. “What is more, their priests have a magic that comes from their God that is quite a match for my own. When you add to all that the mountains that border their land—it is an impossible combination. Those mountains are so steep that there is no place to bring a conventional army through without suffering one ambush or trap after another.”

  “Well, then, what about North?” Falconsbane asked, reasonably. And to his surprise, Ancar whitened.

  “Do not even mention the North,” the King whispered, and glanced hastily from side to side, as if he feared being overheard. “There is something there that dwarfs even the power Karse commands. It is so great—believe me or not, as you will, but I have seen it with my own eyes—that it has created an invisible fence that no one can pass. I have found no mage that can breach it, and after the few who attempted it perished, not even Hulda is willing to try.”

  Falconsbane raised his eyebrows involuntarily. That was something new! An invisible wall around a country? Who—or rather, what—could ever have produced something like that? What was the name of that land, anyway? Iften? Iftel?

  But Ancar had already changed the subject.

  “Most of all, I cannot go Eastward,” he continued, his voice resuming a normal volume, but taking on an edge of bitterness. “The Eastern Empire is large enough to swallow Hardorn and never notice; the Eastern mages are as good or better than any I can hire, and their armies are vast. . . and well-paid. And they are watching me. I know it.”

  That frightened him; Falconsbane had no trouble at all in reading his fear, it was clear in the widening of his eyes, in the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders, in the rigidity of his posture.

  “At the moment, they seem to feel that Hardorn is not worth the fight it would take to conquer it. They had a treaty with my father, which they have left in place, but the Emperor has not actually signed a treaty with my regime. Emperor Charliss has not even sent an envoy until very recently. I believe they are watching me, assessing me. But if I fail to take Valdemar, they will assume that I am weak enough to conquer.” He grimaced. “My father had treaties of mutual defense with Valdemar and Iftel to protect him. I do not have those. I had not thought I would need them.”

  “Then do not attempt Valdemar a third time,” Falconsbane suggested mildly.

  Ancar’s jaw clenched. “If I do not, the result will be the same. The Emperor Charliss will assume I am too weak to try. They have sent their ambassador here, and an entourage with him, as if they were planning on signing the treaty soon, but they have not deceived me. These people are not here to make treaties, they are here to spy on me. There are spies all over Hardorn by now. I have found some—”

  “I trust you left them in place,” Mornelithe said automatically.

  He snorted. “Of course I did, I am not that big a fool. The best spy is the one you know! But I am also not so foolish as to think that I have found them all.” He rose and began pacing in front of the fire, still talking. “One of the reasons I am sure that I have been unable to attract mages of any great ability is that the Emperor can afford to pay them far more than I can offer. I am fairly certain that the mages I have are not creatures of his, but there is no way of telling if he has placed mages as spies in my court and outside of it. So long as they practiced their mage-craft secretly, how would I ever know what they were?”

  Falconsbane refrained from pointing out that he had just told the boy how he would know, that disturbances in the energy-fields would tell him. Perhaps neither he nor his mages were sensitive to those fields. It was not unheard of, though such mages rarely rose above Master. Perhaps he was sensitive, but only when in trance. If so, that was the fault of his teacher.

  Ancar abruptly turned and strode back to the window, standing with his back to Falconsbane and the room, staring at the rapidly-clearing clouds.

  “This is something I had not seen before,” he said, as if to himself. “And I had not known that magic could wreck such inadvertent and accidental havoc. It would be an excellent weapon. . . .”

  Falconsbane snorted softly. It had taken the boy long enough to figure that out.

  “Men calling themselves ‘weather-wizards’ have come to me, seeking employment,” he continued. “I had thought them little better than herb-witches and charm-makers. They didn’t present themselves well enough for me to believe them. I shall have to go about collecting them now.”

  “That would be wise,” Falconsbane said mildly, hiding his contempt.

  Ancar turned again and walked back into the room, this time heading for the door, but paused halfway to that portal to gaze back at Falconsbane.

  “Is there anything else you need?” he asked.

  Falconsbane was quite sure that if he asked for what he really wanted—his freedom—he would not get it. Ancar was not yet sure enough of him, or of himself. Rightly so. The moment he had that freedom, Falconsbane would squash the upstart like an insect.

  But perhaps—perhaps it was time to ask for something else, something nearly as important.

  “Send me someone you wish eliminated,” he said. “Permanently eliminated, I mean. Male or female, it does not matter.”

  He halfway expected more questions—why he wanted such a captive, and what he expected to do with such a sacrificial victim when he had one. But Ancar’s eyes narrowed; he smiled, slowly, and there was a dark and sardonic humor about the expression that told Falconsbane that Ancar didn’t care why he wanted a victim. He nodded, slowly and deliberately. His eyes locked with Falconsbane’s, and the Adept once again saw in Ancar’s eyes a spirit kindred to his own.

  Which made Ancar all the more dangerous. There was no room in the world for two like Falconsbane.

  He left without another word, but no more than half a candlemark later, two guards arrived. Between them they held a battered, terrified man, so bound with chains he could scarcely move. When Falconsbane rose, one of them silently handed him the keys to the man’s bindings.

  The guards backed out, closing the door behind them.

  Falconsbane smiled.

  And took his time.

  Chapter Ten

  Chilling rain poured from a leaden sky, a continuous sheet of gray from horizon to horizon. Elspeth silently thanked the far-away hertasi for the waterproof coats they had made, and tied her hood a little tighter. They rode right into the teeth of the wind; there was little in the way of lightning and thunder, but the wind and sheeting rain more than made up for that lack. The poor gryphons, shrouded in improvised raincapes made from old tents, would have been soaked to the skin if they had not been able to shield themselves from the worst of it with a bit of magic. The res
t of them, however, chose to deal with the elements rather than advertise their presence on the road any further. Admittedly, that was less of a hardship for the Tayledras, Elspeth, Skif, and Nyara, with their coats supplied by the clever fingers of the hertasi. She felt very sorry for Cavil, Shion, and Lisha, whose standard-issue raincloaks were nowhere near as waterproof as hertasi-made garments.

  Still, rain found its way in through every opening, sending unexpected trickles of chill down arms and backs, and exposed legs and faces got the full brunt of the weather. “I may have been more miserable a time or two in my life, but if so, I don’t remember it,” Skif said to Elspeth.

  Nyara grimaced, showing sharp teeth, and nodded agreement. “I do not care to think of spending weeks riding through this,” she said. “It must be bad for the hooved ones, yes? And does not cold and wet like this make people ill?”

  On the other side of her, Cavil leaned over the neck of his Companion to add his own commentary.

  “Now you see what we’ve been dealing with, off and on, for the past six months or so!” he shouted over the drumming rain, sniffing and rubbing his nose. “The—ah—lady is right; every village is suffering colds or fevers. I hope that we manage to ride out of the storm soon, but I am not going to wager on it. You can’t predict anything anymore!”

  Elspeth glanced back at Firesong, who was huddled in his waterproof cape, his firebird inside his hood, just as Vree was inside Darkwind’s. :Isn’t there anything you can do about this?: she asked him. :Can’t you send the rain away, or something? I thought about doing it, but since I’ve never done it before, I’m afraid to try.:

  :Rightly,: he replied. :Weather-work done on mage-disturbance storms after the fact is a touchy business. For that matter, weather-work is always a touchy business. I do not know enough about this land, the countryside hereabouts, to make an informed decision. You do not yet have the skill. We do not know what is safe to do with this storm. Anything either of us do to change the weather-patterns could only mean making a worse disaster than this. Ask your friend if this is going to cause severe enough crop damage to cause shortages later.: