Winds of Fury

by Mercedes Lackey

  This had all been an incredible shock to Firesong, who had spent all of his life in the Vales. Darkwind was not foolish enough to think that molestation was unknown among his people—but it was very uncommon, given that most women and men could very well defend themselves against an attacker. As a scout, he had seen the worst possible behavior on the part of Falconsbane’s men and creatures and had some armoring against what had come. Firesong had no such protection; Firesong was a rare and precious commodity, a Healing Adept, and as such he had been protected more than the ordinary Hawkbrother.

  He had never seen anyone victimized like the boy. Others, who had MindHealing skills, would have dealt with such cases, which would probably have involved an enemy from outside the Vale. It was the attack itself that had him in shock, far more than the drain on his resources.

  Darkwind had never thought to feel pity for the handsome Adept—but he did now, and he longed to be able to give Firesong some comfort in the name of clean and uncomplicated friendship. But there was too much to do, and no time for such niceties.

  Darkwind laid a hand gently on Elspeth’s shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asked. “It’s our turn now.”

  She nodded, her mouth in a tight, grim line.

  “I don’t like this, you know,” she said conversationally, although he sensed the anger under the casual tone. “If it were up to me, these bastards would all wake up eunuchs—if I let them wake up at all. I’d rather get rid of them altogether. Permanently. Let their gods sort them out.”

  “If it were my judgment, I would agree with you.” He shook his head and sighed. If this were home, he could do as she preferred without a second thought. But it was not; they were not alone, they could not fade into the scenery and vanish. More importantly, however, neither could the people of the carnival and town.

  If these men were maimed or killed, retribution would fall, and swiftly, on both the wagon-folk and the village. The only people who had even a chance to escape that punishment would be the Valdemarans, who had magic that would help them get away. Assuming that Ancar’s mages did not try to track them. To put the villagers and Faire-folk into such danger would be an act of unforgivable arrogance.

  No, there was no real choice in the matter; he and Elspeth would simply follow the plan they always used. These men would sleep walk themselves back to their barracks. They would wake up tomorrow with no memory of the molestation, and no memory of being struck down as they either participated, watched and cheered, or waited their turn. They would only remember that they had a good time at the carnival, that they drank more than they should of that drink of dubious origin, and that they had crawled back to their quarters and passed out.

  “At least let me give them the worst hangovers they’ve ever had in their lives,” Elspeth begged fiercely. “And make them impotent while the hangovers last!”

  He sighed, not because he didn’t agree with her but because it seemed far too petty a punishment, but it was all they dared mete out.

  “I wish we could do worse to them,” he said. “I wish we could fix everything. Our best chance at that is to do what we came here to do. Get rid of Ancar, Falconsbane, and Hulda.”

  She nodded grimly but softened as she meshed her mind and talents with his. In a few moments, it was done, and the men began to rise woodenly, stumbling to their feet and bumbling in the direction of their barracks. Their faces were blank, their eyes glazed, and they looked altogether like walking corpses.

  “I’d like to give them plague,” Elspeth muttered, staring after them. “I would, if I didn’t think the townsfolk would catch it. Maybe some lice or social disease. Genital leprosy?”

  As the last of them rose and bumbled off, Firesong stood up, slowly, looking a little better, but still drained and sickly. The last of the wagon-folk were gone, too, and from the sounds all over the encampment, they were getting ready to leave. There were two torches stuck into the ground that gave fitful, sputtering light. “It is hard on a mage to cast magics when there has been no time to prepare for them,” he murmured, his expression open and vulnerable and showing much of the pain he must be feeling. And also some guilt. “Had to push it through with personal power, and damp it all down, so we wouldn’t be discovered.” Firesong rubbed his eyes. “Still. I feel I could have prevented this if I had only acted sooner.”

  “You need not feel guilty,” Darkwind said quietly as Elspeth nodded, trying to put some force into his words so that Firesong would believe him. “You were faster than we were. And you did the best you could.”

  Firesong looked down at his hands. “But it was not enough,” he said unhappily, the strain in his voice betraying how deeply he ached over this. “Where is the poor lad? Liam was his name? I do not like to think of him being alone—”

  “Gerdo has him,” Elspeth said. “He carried him off to their wagon.”

  Firesong looked astonished at that; Darkwind was a little surprised himself. Gerdo was one of the contortionists, and if he’d spoken a dozen words to Liam in all the time they’d been in Hardorn, Darkwind, at least, didn’t know about it. They were, at best, casual acquaintances.

  “He said Sara would understand,” Elspeth continued, “since she was attacked herself. And he said something else, that he knew how Liam felt, sort of, because the same thing happened to him when he was a boy. He said they could at least tell Liam that it wasn’t his fault. Maybe if they tell him often enough, he’ll start to believe it.”

  “I feel I must go apologize,” Firesong said after a moment.

  Darkwind nodded, and sensed Elspeth’s agreement and Gwena’s gentle urging. “Do you mind if we join you?” he said simply.

  There was no rest for them that night; the entire carnival packed up and moved in the dark. They did not stop until the next village that did not have a garrison of Ancar’s men. Darkwind, Elspeth, Nyara, and Skif took turns driving the wagon and sleeping in it. The poor Companions and the dyheli had no such luxury; they had to make their way on their own four hooves. Firesong spent most of that day and night with Gerdo, helping with Liam. Darkwind was not surprised at that; Firesong was a Healing Adept, after all, even though he was not a body-Healer per se. He had the ability to do Liam a great deal of good—and Liam’s plight could do Firesong an equal amount of good.

  Firesong was talented, Gifted, beautiful, and arrogant. In many ways, he had seen himself as above everyone else in this mission, even his fellow Tayledras. Nothing had really touched him except the damage done to the land; he had, for the most part, ignored the damage done to the people. Up until this moment, the pain of these people had been mostly an abstraction to the Adept—something to be deplored and kept at a distance, but nothing that really affected him. Now it had hit home. He had seen willful, cruel violence close at hand. Firesong had opened himself to pain and could not avoid it any more.

  Firesong returned to his fellows late in the afternoon, uncharacteristically sober and silent, but with a certain amount of weary satisfaction on his face. When Liam finally appeared as the wagons were setting up for the shows, Darkwind understood the expression.

  Liam appeared to have found a kind of peace and support. He was ready to get to work, and could look his fellows in the face. The young man had come through the immediate crisis well; while he would bear scars, they would not be as devastating as they might have been.

  And Firesong seemed to have learned a great deal, too. When he looked about him, his beautiful face radiated empathy and compassion for those people who felt pain. He no longer wore a mask of any kind, frivolous or haughty. “Saving the defenseless” appeared no longer to be a meaningless phrase spoken as any other platitude, but rather a goal to be understood as a way of life. Real pain had been touched and understood; Healing was no longer simply a mental exercise for Firesong.

  That night, Need finally conveyed to them what she had learned from her “contact.”

  Darkwind wished devoutly that he could go to bed early, but he had done with less sleep in his life, a
nd this was more important. They wanted things to look as normal as possible, though, and “normal” meant that the wagon should at least look as if they were all asleep. So the five of them sat on two of the beds, heads together, whispering into the darkness of the wagon.

  .Firstly—we’ve all had some ideas about who was the real power in Hardorn, the one who’s responsible for the way things have gone to pot around here,: Need said. : We all thought it was Ancar, but it wasn’t. He isn’t more than a Master, if that. It was Hulda.: Elspeth choked. “Hulda?” she whispered urgently.

  :That’s right. She is an Adept.:

  “But—the protections that were on Valdemar when she was there—how could she have been an Adept?” Elspeth sputtered.

  :Apparently she never used any magic while she was there, child, so she never invoked the interest of the vrondi. She knew what she was doing, and understood the nature of the protections. Anyway. She set up this draining effect that’s been pulling life-force out of this land; Ancar’s been getting all the loot, all the gold and the pretties, baubles to keep the baby happy, but she’s been hoarding the power for herself. What she’s done with it, though—I don’t know, and neither does Mornelithe. Falconsbane thinks she was courting the Emperor’s envoy; they use magic over there, so maybe she was sending them the power. If she was, it’s the first time I’ve ever heard of people being able to do that sort of thing.:

  Darkwind shook his head, feeling nauseous. That had to be one of the strangest and most perverted things he’d ever heard. “So Hulda has been deliberately wrecking this land?”

  :Pretty much. Encouraging Ancar to do what he wants, without ever giving him any real power or training past a certain point. Huh. Maybe I do know what she was doing with all that power. Those magical attacks, coercive spells on the troops—all of that is far too powerful for the mages Ancar has in his employ to be able to successfully invoke—unless someone was feeding them the energy to do it. Interesting idea.:

  “That makes a great deal of sense,” Firesong agreed, his voice flat with exhaustion. “More sense than that she would be making courting-gifts of mage-power. So Ancar has been the puppet, and she the manipulator?”

  :Until lately. She’s been sloppy, and he’s been chafing at the constraints she put on him. She made the mistake of promising him more training and not delivering. So he started experimenting on his own; that’s how he got Falconsbane. Put up half a Gate without knowing what he was doing or what it was for, wished desperately for an Adept to get him out of it before he got eaten alive, the Gate took the wish for the destination, and delivered Falconsbane with a bow on him.:

  Firesong bit off an exclamation. Darkwind could only sit and shake his head with weary astonishment. “Either he is the stupidest lucky man in the world, or the luckiest stupid one,” Darkwind said at last. “I would not have given him the chance of a dewdrop in an inferno of surviving such a blunder.”

  “And Mornelithe has the luck of a god, I swear it.” Firesong snorted with a little more energy.

  :He put Falconsbane under coercion while still magically naked and helpless—for once in his life, the Beast couldn’t fight or break what was put on him. So; now Ancar has an Adept, he starts to feel as if he can do without Hulda. Falconsbane has been encouraging this, figuring on setting both of them against each other and running out while they get rid of each other. Except that Ancar managed to catch Hulda in a moment of weakness, and right now he has her inside a mage-mirrored prison cell she helped create. So she’s out of the way, for the moment.:

  “So, what we have is the three powers at the top, who should be working together, who we’ve assumed have been working together, are actually fighting each other?” That was Skif, and he sounded incredulous despite his own weariness. “We might yet be able to pull this off!”

  :Before you get too confident, let me give you the details,: Need said dryly.

  The details were many, and often baffling. Only by assuming that Need’s assessment of Falconsbane was accurate could Darkwind even begin to understand how the Beast had made so many fundamental blunders. It was incredible, impossible, insane. But, he realized, that described Falconsbane perfectly.

  Still, it was terrifying to think what would happen if Falconsbane should happen to change his mind about cooperating with Ancar. The damage that had been wrought without that cooperation was terrible. And the number of successes the army of Hardorn had against Valdemar without Falconsbane’s real help was even worse. But with it—

  And Falconsbane was capricious. He could change his mind at any time. Their only chance was to strike for him while he was still Ancar’s captive, for if he became Ancar’s comrade before they reached the capital—the odds in their favor were not good.

  The odds for Valdemar would be even worse.

  Chapter Sixteen

  An’desha waited on the Moonpaths; alone this time, for Dawnfire had appeared only long enough to summon him and then had left him. That might mean the old woman wished to speak with him, then. That was good, for An’desha had been keeping Falconsbane annoyed with Ancar, as she had asked him to do, and at the moment it would be more likely for a pig to stoop on a hawk than that Falconsbane should become Ancar’s willing helper.

  Still, the Adept was a slippery and unpredictable creature. An’desha had been forced to play fast and loose with Mornelithe’s mind to stave off the thought that it might not be such a bad thing to cooperate with the King. He’d had to remind Falconsbane of the coercions, and the King’s own word that he had no intention of taking them off.

  The trouble was that Hulda was still incarcerated. The protections she herself had put on the cell were better than Falconsbane had given her credit for. There was no sign that she was going to come bursting out of there and finish Ancar off any time soon, and the Adept was growing impatient.

  He heard footsteps—real footsteps, on the Moonpath to his right. He turned to peer into the glittery fog. It had to be the old woman, for the Avatars had never made the sound of footsteps, and she was just contrary enough to create a sound in a place where such things were superfluous.

  The old woman emerged out of the fog; from the set of her jaw, she had much to tell him.

  “Well, boy,” she said, stopping within a few paces of him, and looking him up and down as if to take his measure, “I hope you’re as ready for this as your friends think because this is where we gamble everything.”

  “Friends?”

  “The Avatars.”

  A chill of anticipation mingled with fear threaded his veins, for all that his “veins” were as illusory as the old woman’s footsteps. “I can only try,” he said carefully. “I have kept Falconsbane at odds with Ancar. He was beginning to think it might be good to ally with King Ancar after all.”

  She nodded brusquely. “That’s good. You’ve done very well, boy. But this is going to take a surer, more delicate touch, and constant work. I mean that. We’ve come to the real turning point, and there’s no way back now. You won’t be able to leave him alone for a heartbeat, and you’ll have to be absolutely certain he doesn’t know you’re playing with him. My people aren’t more than a day away.”

  An’desha felt very much as if he had been suddenly immersed in ice water, but his voice remained steady. “So, whatever we do, it must be done soon. You have a plan, and its success depends upon my performance. If I fail, we all will lose.”

  “Exactly.” She gave him another of those measuring looks. “This is where we see if you can really come up to what we’re going to ask of you. You’re going to have to create memories for Falconsbane from whole cloth, boy—memories of one of the servants telling him about the carnival, and that there’s a captive cat-woman dancing in one of the tent-shows there. We want him to hear about Nyara, we want him to come after her. We intend for him to walk into ambush. Can you do that?”

  Create whole memories . . . he had been making fragments, adding to things Ancar truly had said so that they could be read as being insulting,
for instance. Falconsbane had no idea his memories had been tampered with. An’desha had plenty of memories to use to make this one, memories that featured the servants talking. Was there any reason why he couldn’t do this?

  “I believe I can, Lady,” he replied, trying to sound confident.

  She smiled for the first time in this meeting. “Good. Then I’ll leave you. You’re going to need a lot of time to do this right, and I’m only wasting it.”

  And with that, she turned and walked off into the mist, and was gone.

  Part of the plan, however, was not going to work. Having a servant tell Falconsbane about the carnival was simply not believable, no matter what the old woman thought. No, he thought, as he examined Falconsbane’s sleeping mind and all the memories of servants in it. No, I cannot have a memory of a servant telling him something. They do not speak to him unless they need to, for they fear him. But a memory of him overhearing them—yes, that I can do. There are plenty of those, and they will be less obtrusive, for he listens to the servants speak when they do not think he can hear them.

  The memory, he decided after some thought, should be just a little vague. Perhaps if Falconsbane had been sleeping?

  He selected something that had happened in the recent past, a recollection of a pair of servants coming into Falconsbane’s room to tend the fire, and waking him. That time they had been gossiping about Ancar and Hulda and had not known he was awake. It was a good choice for something like this; Mornelithe had been half-asleep, and had only opened his eyes long enough to see which of the servants were whispering together. It was another measure of how damaged he was that he didn’t think of the servants as any kind of threat. The old Falconsbane would never have been less than fully alert with even a single, well-known person in the same room with him, however apparently helpless or harmless that person was.

  He took the memory, laid it down, then began to create his dialogue. It wasn’t easy. He had to steal snippets of conversation from other memories, then blend them all in a harsh whisper, since Hardornen was neither his native tongue nor Falconsbane’s. He did not think in this language, so he had to fabricate what he needed, making his dialogue from patchwork, like a quilt.