Winds of Fury

by Mercedes Lackey

  He kept Falconsbane sleeping deeply as he labored through the night. If he had been able to sweat, he would have; this was hard labor, as hard as horse-taming or riding night-guard. It was so much like weaving a tapestry—like he imagined the legendary history-tapestries were. But at last it was done, and he watched it himself, to examine it as a whole with a weary mental “eye.” He was so weary that even his fear was a dull and distant thing, secondary to simply finishing what had been asked of him.

  The two servants entered the room; the memory of this was only the sound of the door opening and closing. They were whispering, but too softly to make out more than a word or two—“show,” and “faire,” and some chuckling. Then—a bit of vision as if Falconsbane had opened his eyes and shut them again quickly. A glimpse of two menservants, one with logs and the other with a poker, silhouetted against the fire.

  “. . . what could be worth going back there?” asked one, over the sound of the fire being stirred with the poker.

  “There’s a dancer. They call her Lady Cat, and she looks half cat. I tell you, when she’s done dancing, you wish she’d come sit on your lap! When she moves, you can’t think of anything but sex. She’s supposed to be a slave; she’s got a collar and a chain, but she doesn’t act much like a slave, more like she owns the whole show.”

  Another laugh, this one knowing. “I’ll bet she does! I’ll bet she does things besides dance when the show closes, too!”

  “Well, that’s what I mean to find out—”

  Sounds of logs being put on the fire, then of the servants leaving the room and closing the door behind them.

  It looked good, what vision there was behind it. It sounded good, solid and real. Well, now to wake Falconsbane up, and make him think the little conversation has just now occurred.

  He woke the Adept with the sound of the door closing, and a little jolt, then left the memory out in Falconsbane’s mind where it was the very first thing he would “see.”

  And it worked! The Adept thought he had actually witnessed the entire conversation!

  He watched as Falconsbane mulled it over, wondering if this so-called “Cat Lady” was a carnival fake, created because of his own growing notoriety, or was real—

  Oh, no—oh, no. She can’t be a fake—he can’t even think she might be a fake. Quickly An’desha shunted that thought away, guiding Falconsbane’s sleep-fogged mind in the direction he wanted.

  No, of course the cat-woman wasn’t a fake. No one would dare counterfeit a Changechild, much less counterfeit Falconsbane; his own reputation would frighten anyone who dared to try it! No, it had to be real, and if it was real, there was only one creature it could be.

  Nyara, An’desha whispered, keeping his own terror of being caught under tight control.

  Nyara. Falconsbane’s claws tightened on the bedclothes, piercing holes in the cloth. She had run eastward, after all! Probably she had started running when he had escaped death at the hands of the cursed Shin’a’in, and had not stopped until she had been captured. Now was his chance to catch her and make her pay for her treachery!

  But I must hide her existence from Ancar, An’desha prompted.

  But of course he would have to hide her very existence from Ancar. He would have to slip out of the palace, go alone and unobserved, and take her himself. If Ancar learned about her, he would want to see her, and the moment he saw her he would know she was Falconsbane’s handiwork. Ancar was not the fool Falconsbane had thought—although a fool he certainly was—and he would certainly use Nyara as an additional hold over his captive Adept. Falconsbane had invested a great deal of power in making Nyara what she was, and any mage higher than Journeyman would know that using her he could control the creator. The old law of contamination. Any mage left some of himself along with his power, even an Apprentice knew that. There was the likelihood that even Hulda’s old toy knew it as well.

  Going to this carnival alone and unobserved, though—that would take some creativity. There were always guards at his door, and more guards throughout the palace. He would have to find a way to avoid them, and a time when Ancar was occupied elsewhere. This would take a great deal of advance preparation, and no small amount of power to come and go without detection.

  Why else have I been storing up mage-energy? An’desha asked.

  But then, why else had he been storing up mage-energy ? Even with the coercions, he could still work spells that would make him ignored by anyone who set eyes on him. He could even work a true spell of invisibility for a short period of time. He could stun the guards for as long as he needed, and he had certainly picked up enough information from the servants’ gossip to know the easiest clandestine ways in and out of the palace. If he picked a time when Ancar was busy with the war plans, he could be down to the carnival and back with no one being the wiser.

  And as for Nyara—once he had her, even though her death would of necessity be rushed, he could make it seem an eternity to her. Perhaps—perhaps he could enhance all her senses, and stretch her time perception, so that every tiny cut seemed to take a year.

  Such a sweet reunion it would be. . . .

  Falconsbane began to plan what he would do to his daughter when he finally had his hands on her. An’desha shuddered but did not pull back into the familiar corner of his mind.

  Skif couldn’t help but notice the air of relaxation all through the carnival this afternoon. Wagon-folk all over the carnival had breathed a sigh of relief as they set up just outside the walls of the capital, at the gate nearest the palace itself. Ancar might permit his men to do as they willed anywhere else, but here they were as restrained as good, disciplined troops in any other land. Pairs of Elite Guards with special armbands patrolled the streets, and today while running his errands, Skif had seen one man hauled off for public drunkenness, and another for robbing a street peddler.

  Skif only wished that he and the others could share in the general feeling of relief. For the Valdemarans and their allies, the dangers had just increased exponentially.

  The general consensus among the wagon-folk was that it would be well worth staying a week or so, here, and safe enough to let the women come out of hiding. There were good pickings to be had in this city. Many of them had constructed clever hiding places in their wagons for a small hoard of coins in anticipation of a good run.

  No one among the wagon-folk knew what the Valdemarans were really up to; their story—which still seemed to be holding under the pressure of passing time—was that they were going into the city; that they had found out that their missing relatives had last been heard of here, and they were going to get them out, if they were still alive. Missing relatives was a common enough tale in Hardorn these days, and if the wagon-folk wondered about the odd group, they had so far kept their speculations to themselves.

  Skif had gone out into the city to get the lay of the land; now he returned to the carnival with the provisions he had been “sent” for, and a great deal of information. Last night Nyara had danced in three shows; and his every muscle had been tight with strain at each one, wondering if she would be able to continue the charade. This morning there were at least a few people in the marketplace talking about her. If Falconsbane would just hear about her and come looking. . . .

  Already townsfolk threaded the aisles of the carnival, looking, fingering, and sometimes buying. He pushed his way through them until he came to “Great Mage Pandemonium’s” stand. At the moment it was closed; the five of them had decided it would be better only to perform after nightfall, and to keep the use of magic to a minimum. Nyara was only a draw to the adult crowd, anyway, and the day-goers seemed to be families and older children.

  The rest should be in the tent, relaxing; the wagon was too cramped for anything except sleeping. And just sleeping ; he was far too shy to do anything with Nyara in company, and Elspeth and Darkwind felt the same. They’d been making it a habit to eat, lounge, and carry on the things that had to be tended to, day-to-day, in the larger area of the show-te
nt.

  He had expected the atmosphere to he tense when he entered the tent, but he had not expected the set of peculiar expressions on the faces of his friends as they turned toward him. They were seated on makeshift stools of whatever equipment boxes happened to be handy. Even in the dim light beneath the heavy canvas, they looked as if they were suffering from sunstroke. Stunned, and quite at a loss.

  “Our sharp friend has handed us a complication,” Darkwind said, his own expression swiftly changing from irritation to apprehension and back again as he glanced at the sword at Nyara’s side.

  “It seems that Falconsbane isn’t really Falconsbane.”

  What? “An imposter?” Skif blurted. that being the only thing he could think of. “We’ve been chasing an—”

  “No, no, no,” Elspeth interrupted. “No, that’s not it at all! But—the Beast is not exactly alone.”

  Now Skif was even more bewildered, and he shook his head violently, as if by shaking it, the words would make some sense. “What in Havens are you talking about?”

  : Damn it, you’re all missing the point,: Need said with irritation. : Except Firesong, but I’ve been talking to him all morning. Here, let me show you.:

  Then, without even a “by your leave,” Skif found himself inside the thoughts of some other person entirely, just as Need had once flung him inside her own memories when she had first awakened, to explain what she was by showing him. But this was not Need’s memory; this person was young, male, and seemed to be Shin’a’in—

  :Halfbreed, : Need interrupted. :Trust me, it made a difference in how things came out.:

  He watched, a silent observer, as the boy discovered his mage-powers, determined to run away to the Hawkbrothers, got lost in the Pelagiris Forest, tried to light a fire—

  —and the entity that called itself Momelithe Falconsbane-in this lifetime—came flooding in to take his mind and body and make them his own.

  Abruptly, Need flung Skif out of those memories, and he found himself back in the carnival tent, blinking, the others shaking their heads as they, too, recovered from the experience. “I wish you wouldn’t do that without warning a man,” Skif complained, hitting the side of his head lightly with the heel of his hand. “It—”

  :It saves time,: Need replied testily. Well, now you know. That’s who my informant has been. :

  “The boy?” Skif chewed his lip a little. “And presumably he still lives within Falconsbane’s body. Forgive me, but I don’t see how that changes anything.”

  : He lives inside his body. Falconsbane has stolen it. What changes everything is that the boy found out how Falconsbane’s been doing this. An’desha’s body is far from the first he’s stolen. Unless we stop Falconsbane in a way that keeps him from taking his spirit off to hide again, it won’t be the last. People, this has been happening since the time your folk call the ‘Mage Wars.’ All he needs is a body out of his bloodline, with Mage-Gift. And trust me on this; he spent a lot of time back then making certain he’d have a lot of descendants. Usually he does the same any time he’s had a body for a while.:

  After a moment the sense of that penetrated, and Skif cursed softly. “You mean if we take him the way we had planned and kill him, we might be facing him again in a couple of years?”

  :If he finds somebody else with his bloodline, yes. Or takes over Nyara’s children. You see, he had another motive for trying out all his Changes on her, first. Mage-Gift will always breed true in her children now, and if and when she decides to have them, despite the lies her father told her, she’ll be very—ah—prolific. Catlike in more than looks, it seems.:

  Skif froze in place, his body and mind chilled, as his eyes sought Nyara’s. She nodded unhappily. “I could not fight him, Skif. Need could help me, but she cannot be everywhere, at all times, and what are we to do? Insist that our grown children stay with us all their lives?”

  :Even if you don’t have children, there are always more where An’desha came from. His father was out spending his seed all over the south. Sooner or later, Falconsbane will be back.:

  “We can’t capture him—we can’t kill him—what in the nine hells can we do with him?” Skif demanded, his voice rising. He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “What are we here for? Why don’t we just give up? Why are we even trying?”

  Firesong gave him a look that shut him up abruptly. “We can kill him, Skif,” the Healing Adept said calmly, his face an inhuman mask of serenity. “Need and I have been discussing this since you left. We can be rid of him, forever, and in a way that will allow An’desha to reclaim his body. But it will take four of us working together; you, Nyara, Need, and myself. Possibly even your Companion. It will take superb timing and equally superb cooperation. And it will not be silent.”

  “By silent, you mean that it is going to take some very obvious magic?” Skif hazarded. This time it was Darkwind who nodded.

  “That’s why Elspeth, Vree, Gwena, and I will not be here. We will have to strike after Ancar takes the backlash of this magic or detects it in other ways, but before he has a chance to act on that knowledge. Since Falconsbane bears a great many of his coercion spells, slaying the Beast should snap them, and they will recoil on him like snapped bowstrings.” Darkwind rubbed one temple, then moved his hand up higher to scratch Vree. “More timing, you see. There will be a moment when he is very stunned, and that is when we must strike. Firesong will give us a signal when Falconsbane is gone. First we will take out Ancar. Then we will deal with Hulda.”

  After all the time it had taken to get to this point, things seemed to be cascading much too fast, one plan running into the next like an avalanche. But so far as Skif was concerned there was still one question to be asked.

  “If you can kill Falconsbane without killing the other fellow, wouldn’t it be easier to kill him straight off and not worry about this boy?” There, it was out. He didn’t like it, but how could seeing her father’s body walking around do Nyara any good? And why complicate matters? It was very nice that this An’desha fellow had helped them, but sometimes you had to accept innocent casualties. . . .

  The realist and the Herald warred within him, and the realist looked to be winning, but it was not making him feel anything other than soiled, old, and terribly cynical.

  “We could, and it would be simpler,” Firesong admitted reluctantly. “But it is something I do not care for. On the other hand, one less complication might increase our chances for surviving this.” It looked to Skif as if he were facing his own internal struggle, and didn’t care for the realities of the situation either.

  Skif nodded; Elspeth looked uncomfortable and distressed, but nodded also, for she had learned long ago to accept that the expedient way might be the best way. But to Skif’s surprise, it was Nyara who spoke up against the idea.

  “Need has given me a sense of what An’desha has dwelt within, all these years,” she said slowly. “What Falconsbane did to me is nothing to what he has done to this boy. He has helped us at risk of real death—and he has done so knowing we might decide not to help him. I say it would reflect ill upon us all our days if we were to pretend he did not exist. I say we should save him if we can, and I put my life up for trying.”

  She looked at Skif as if she were afraid he would think her to be crazed. He did—but it was the kind of “crazed” that he could admire. He crossed the tent and took her in his arms for a moment, then turned to the others.

  “Nyara’s right. It’s stupid, it’s suicidal, but Nyara’s right and I was wrong.” He gulped, shaking all over, but feeling an odd relief as well. “We have to help this boy, if we can.”

  :And that is why you were Chosen,: Cymry said softly, into his mind.

  “All right, Great Mage Pandemonium,” he said. “Then let’s do this all or nothing. After all—” he grinned tautly as he remembered his old motto, the one he had told Talia so very long ago. “—if you’re going to traverse thin ice, you might as well dance your way across!”

  Night fell,
and Falconsbane’s preparations were all in place. They were in for another bout of wizard-weather, this time an unseasonable cold, and as far as he was concerned, that was all to the good. Bad weather would make it easier for him to disguise himself.

  There was a very convincing simulacrum of himself in the bed, apparently sleeping, in case anyone came in while he was gone.

  Ancar was in his war-room, a large chamber with a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the palace. Hulda, of course, was still in her cell, and showing no signs of breaking free. The other mages were all with Ancar, but the King did not trust Falconsbane enough to allow him access to the actual battle plans unless things had unraveled to the point that there was no choice.

  The servants were mostly elsewhere. Rumors of what Falconsbane had done to the prisoners Ancar had given him insured that, except when he was known to be sleeping. There were two guards at his door, however. . . .

  Falconsbane moved soundlessly to the doorway, and placed his hands at head-height on either side of the door-frame. This would be very tricky; he had very little mind-magic, so this would all be true spellcasting. Difficult, when one could not see one’s target. . . .

  He gathered his powers; closed his eyes, concentrating, building up the forces. And then, at the moment of greatest tension, let them fly, arrows of power from each hand that pierced the wall without a sound.

  He opened his eyes. There was no noise, no hint of disturbance, on the other side of the door.

  He reached for the voluminous cloak he’d had one of the servants bring him this morning and swirled it over his shoulders. It fell gracefully to his feet in heavy folds; he pulled the hood up over his head, using it to cover his face, so that nothing showed but his eyes. As cold as it was tonight, no one would think anything wrong, seeing a man muffled to the nose in a cloak. Likely, everyone else on the street would be doing the same thing and hoping that it would not rain.