Winds of Fury

by Mercedes Lackey

  He was making soothing little sounds, when suddenly his feathers all stood on end, and he felt the unique trembling in the forces of magic that signaled a Gate forming in this very room.

  His first thought was that Falconsbane had found a way to build a Gate here, to attack the children. He shoved them all behind him, turning with foreclaws outstretched, building his shields and his powers to strike at anything that struck at him. His action took the two Heralds on guard entirely by surprise, but they reacted with the speed of superbly-trained fighters, drawing their weapons and facing the direction he faced.

  A haze of power shimmered in the doorway to the salle. Then—the door vanished, to be replaced by a meadow of sad, yellowed grasses—

  A meadow?

  And Firesong and Elspeth came stumbling through, followed by Nyara and Skif, the dyheli, the birds, and the two Companions, one of whom carried Darkwind on her back, and dragged a slab of wood. The other Companion carried someone else, wrapped up in so much cloth as to be unidentifiable.

  The Gate came down immediately. So did Firesong, collapsing where he stood. Darkwind looked none too good either.

  “Get a Healerrrr!” Treyvan snapped; one of the Heralds sheathed her blade and took off at a dead run before he even finished the sentence. The other joined him at Firesong’s side.

  “What happened?” the young man demanded. “Is—”

  “We got Falconsbane, Ancar, and Hulda, in that order, yesterday,” Elspeth replied, helping Darkwind down off Gwena’s back. “All hell broke loose over there. We’ll probably see the effects of it on the border, in a day or a week, depending on if anyone thinks to use the relay-towers to get word to the front lines. There was rioting in the city as we left, and we traveled just long enough for Firesong to get back the strength to Gate us home. The unrest was spreading faster than we could move.”

  “What isss the wood?”

  Darkwind chuckled weakly, still clearly in some pain. “A trophy. A lifesaver of a trophy.”

  Just then, the first Herald returned with not one, but three Healers, and right behind them were Selenay and Prince Daren and their bodyguards, followed by a runner from one of the Valdemaran relay-towers. It looked as if the man had been bringing an urgent message, had seen the Queen and her consort running like dyheli for the salle, and had followed them instead of going to the Palace.

  He nearly got skewered by the bodyguards until he flung up both hands, showing himself weaponless, and panted out, “Message from the border!”

  “Ten to one it’s starting—” Treyvan heard Skif mutter to Nyara, who nodded wisely, as she aided the unknown down from the second Companion’s saddle. He, she, or it also simply slumped down to the floor, but not until Firesong had gotten to his (her?) side with one of the Healers.

  Skif was right. The message from the border was of chaos.

  Some of Ancar’s army—the Elite—continued to attack. Most were fleeing. Even Ancar’s mages were no longer a factor, for they were actually fighting among themselves.

  “We need to get out there,” Selenay said, immediately. “All of us. Companion-back it shouldn’t take that long.”

  Elspeth shook her head. “I’m still in good shape, Mother. I can build a Gate for you. The only reason Firesong brought us here was because of the distance; it isn’t even half that far to Landon Castle, and that should be right near the front.” She grinned wanly. “I certainly saw enough of that place the last time Ancar hit us to put a Gate in the chapel door.”

  “Done,” Selenay said instantly, and turned to Treyvan. He waved a claw at her. “Fearrr not, Lady. We shall be rrrready. Hydona and I can deal with sssuch magessss asss may get thisss farrr.”

  “Be here in a candlemark with whoever and whatever you want to take with you,” Elspeth said, and looked at Darkwind. “I should go, too.”

  Selenay shook her head. “No, love, not really. Daren and I will go because there will be decisions on what must be done with Hardorn, but now—this is hardly more than a matter of cleaning up.”

  Darkwind nodded agreement. “The danger will not be to you. The dangers are all in a disorderly retreat, to keep the forces from hurting each other. Your people know you; you are the one in charge. And they no longer need an Adept out there.”

  “My thoughtsss exactly.” Treyvan nodded.

  Selenay was not going to waste time or words; she and Daren hurried back out, trailed by guards, messengers, and Heralds.

  Selenay and Daren returned with their Companions, all armed and provisioned, and a guard of six Heralds and six Royal Guardsmen. They were ready, Elspeth was ready—Treyvan was very proud of his young human pupil, who was showing her true mettle. He gently reminded her of how the Gate Spell worked, and stood ready to guide her “hands.”

  Elspeth took her place before the salle doors to create her very first Gate.

  Treyvan watched her with the critical eye of a teacher but could find nothing to criticize. She had not needed his aid at all; she had done her work flawlessly. The portal filled with the image of a dark, ill-lit, stone-walled room.

  “That old miser never will buy enough candles to light that great barn properly,” Selenay muttered, covering her amazement with the rather flippant remark. Treyvan thought it rather brave of her, when she did not ask “Is it safe?” but rather, “Is everything ready?”

  A chorus of “ayes” answered her, and the Queen herself, with her Companion, was the first one through the Gate. Two by two, the entourage went through.

  Elspeth dissolved the Gate—and sat down herself, abruptly. Treyvan was expecting it, however, and helped her to sit, waving away the Healer who had been tending Firesong. “It isss wearrrinesss, only,” he assured the woman. “Gate-enerrrgy.”

  He bent over Elspeth. :Silly child,: he chided, mind-to-mind. : You have all of the Heartstone to regain your energies! Use it! Firesong assuredly is!:

  :Oh,: she replied sheepishly. :I—ah—forgot.:

  And only then did the Healer tending the unknown persuade her (him?) to remove the cloak swathing his face and body.

  Treyvan flashed into “kill” stance, shoving the youngsters behind him with his outstretched wings.

  :Falconsbane!:

  Then, before anyone could do or say anything, he looked deeply into the creature’s eyes and saw there, not the ages-old tyrant, but a young and vulnerable boy.

  He relaxed, flattening his feathers, and tucking his wings in with a flip. “Ssso,” he said, “And who isss thiss, that wearrrsss the body of ourrr old foe?”

  It was Firesong who answered, with one hand protectively on the boy’s shoulder. “This is An’desha, old friend. And—”

  :And he has earned more than the reward he sought. :

  The mental voice boomed through his head, resonating in his bones. Every feather on Treyvan’s body stood on end, as he felt the stirrings of energies deeper and stranger than the local mage-currents. Light filled the room, a warm and sourceless light as bright as sunlight on a summer day. A faint scent of sun-warmed grasses wafted across the salle—

  The light collected behind An’desha; more light formed into an identical column behind a very startled Nyara. The columns of light spread huge, fiery wings over the two; Treyvan’s skin tingled and Darkwind and Firesong gasped.

  :These twain have given selflessly. It is the will of the Warrior that what was stolen from them be returned.:

  A female voice this time—and Darkwind reached toward the pillar of light behind Nyara as if he recognized it, and soundlessly mouthed a name. Treyvan realized that, no, these were not winged columns of golden light, but a pair of huge golden birds, shining so brightly that Treyvan squinted and the humans’ eyes watered. But the birds had human eyes—eyes as black as night, but spangled with stars.

  :So let the balance be restored.: Both voices called, in glorious harmony, a peal of trumpets, the cry of hawks—

  The light flared, and Treyvan cried out involuntarily, blinded, deafened, able to see only the li
ght and hear only the joined and wordless song of those two voices, which went on, and on—

  And was, as suddenly, gone.

  He blinked, his beak still agape. The light was gone, and with it the two huge hawks of light—

  Then his beak gaped even farther as he looked down at what had been An’desha/Mornelithe.

  A young, bewildered, and clearly human man sat there now; as he looked up in shock and wonder at Treyvan, his golden skin betrayed his Shin’a’in blood, although his golden-brown hair spoke of an outClan parent somewhere. His eyes were still green-gold and slitted like a cat’s, and there was still a feline cast to his features; his build was still powerful and his fingernails still talon-like—but no one would ever look askance at him in a crowd now.

  Treyvan looked quickly to Nyara, who was staring at An’desha, and saw that similar changes had been made to her. She looked down at her hands, at skin that no longer bore a coat of sleek, short fur—and burst into tears.

  It took a while for Skif and Treyvan to understand her distress, and longer for Skif to persuade Nyara that he still would love her now that she was no longer so exotic. Treyvan advised the blade Need to stay out of it; wisely, she did.

  An’desha was simply overjoyed. He had never expected to look human again—he had only wanted a body back, not necessarily the original body Mornelithe had taken. It was from him that they learned what the two fiery birds were—“Avatars of the Shin’a’in Warrior”—and who—“A shaman of my people, Tre’valen, and his lady, Dawnfire.”

  Darkwind nodded as if he had expected something of the sort; he and Elspeth shared a warm and secret smile of pleasure. Firesong looked as if he had gotten a revelation from the gods. The gryphlets and children, who had been quiet witnesses to all of this, simply watched with wide, delighted eyes.

  Finally, they packed themselves back up to the palace, silent, awestruck youngsters and all. Treyvan was simply afire by then with impatience. “I mussst know!” he exclaimed as they settled into the gryphons’ rooms, and another small army of Healers and servants descended on them. “I ssssee that thisss An’desssha isss not Falconsssbane, but how, how, did he become Falconsssbane? Orrrr did Falconsssbane become him?”

  Firesong had his arm about the young man’s shoulders, in a gesture both protective and proprietary. “Falconsbane became him, old bird,” the Adept replied. “And how he got there is a very, very, long story.”

  :A long story? A long story?: Rris came bounding up at last, dashing in from the hallway, ears and tail high. :Knowledge is good! History is better! Tell me! Tell me all!:

  Treyvan grinned to himself. Once the kyree discovered what he had missed witnessing, they were never going to hear the last of it!

  Firesong laughed tiredly; An’desha stared at the kyree in utter fascination, and Treyvan only shook his head and sighed at Rris’ unbounded enthusiasm.

  “We will have time enough to tell you all you wish, Rris,” Firesong said. “An’desha and Darkwind and I are the most weary of this company, and I think—”

  “If you think that we’re going to order the lot of you to stay here and recover, you’re right!” snapped one of the Healers. “You’re in no shape to go haring around on a battlefield.” He turned back to An’desha, muttering something about “Heralds.”

  “Well, Rris,” Elspeth said with a smile, getting up off the floor to go sit with Darkwind. She leaned gingerly into his shoulder, “It looks as if you’re going to have all of us at your disposal for some time.”

  :Yes!: Rris replied, bounding in place. :Yes! I will make histories of all of it!: And he abruptly settled, fixed Darkwind with his direct and intelligent gaze, and demanded, :Now. You, Darkwind. Begin at the beginning, and leave nothing out.:

  Darkwind slowly picked up the battered map of Valdemar and threatened Rris with it.

  Elspeth burst into laughter, laughing until tears came to her eyes. “Don’t kill him, ashke; he’s a Bard and has immunity here.”

  “Impudence, you mean,” Darkwind muttered. Then smiled, and gently put the map back down.

  “It all began,” he said, as if he were a master storyteller, “on the day we left home.”

  Rris cocked his head to one side, curiously. :K’Sheyna?: he asked, puzzled.

  “No,” Darkwind replied, his eyes on Elspeth and not the kyree. “Home. Valdemar.”

  Treyvan thought that the blinding light of the Avatars could never be matched. But it was challenged and eclipsed then, by the light in Elspeth’s eyes.

  Author’s Note

  No one works in a vacuum; a creation can only reach people with the help of more than merely the creator. In the case of a book, the reader seldom sees all those people, often never knows that they exist.

  At DAW Books, it all began with tireless First Reader, Peter Stampfel, a fine musician in his own right (catch him and his group, the Bottle Caps, when you’re in New York). He is the man who reads hundreds, if not thousands, of manuscripts every year and picks out those he thinks the editors would like to see. One of the ones he picked out was Arrows of the Queen, for which I owe him eternal gratitude.

  Then comes Editor in Chief, Elizabeth Wollheim, whose critique has made what had been good books into much, much better books, and who also has taken the courageous steps of publishing a trilogy with a shaych hero and of putting illustrations back into books. No one could ever want a better editor; no one could ever have an editor who was easier to work with. Without her, Valdemar would never have been what it has become. Without her, I would not be the writer I am today. A good writer never stops learning, and I could have no better teacher than Elizabeth Wollheim.

  , Also entering the fray, in the times when Betsy was juggling too many red-hot pokers to manage another, is Sheila Gilbert. This is the lady who has been bringing you the fine work of Tanya Huff as well.

  Of course I can’t fail to mention Elsie Wollheim and her late husband Don, without whom there would not be a DAW Books, and very likely would not be a Heralds of Valdemar series. Elsie and Don discovered far too many science fiction talents to ever list here, and with their unfailing honesty and determination to “do right” by their writers, have won the admiration and love of so many of us.

  The stalwart centurion of the copy editing line, Paula Greenberg, makes certain that all my capitalizations and spellings match and imparts as much consistency as anyone can to someone as chaotic as I am.

  The patient Joe Schaumburger ensures that none of us forget anything, keeping track of it all, occasionally proofreading, reminding us that we haven’t sent our proof corrections, and a million other things, all at once. I can only conclude he has a monumental memory, as well as a charming personality, and it is always a pleasure to hear from him.

  Out in the “field” are all the booksellers—the independents, who start so many careers, and the chains, who nourish careers. We have the American Bookseller’s Association to thank for the fact that there is scarcely a town in the United States that does not have a bookstore, which was not the case when I was a youngster. We have the ABA to thank for crusading tirelessly against those who would have books taken off the shelves, censored, and banned.

  And we have the American Librarians’ Association, who make certain that those who can’t afford to buy all the books they want can still read them!

  On the home front, I have my personal set of High Flight folks to thank, and very first and foremost is Larry Dixon. A talented artist and writer, he also is my “first editor”; everything he has touched has always been immeasurably better for it. He is the best partner anyone could want; he has also become my husband which makes it even better! Interestingly, we began with a working relationship, he as artist, I as writer. It was a collaboration begun the first weekend we met, called “Ties Never Binding.” It evolved into the “Winds” trilogy.

  Another co-writer, Mark Shepherd, is our secretary in addition to being my protégé. He is the one who keeps track of fan mail, release-forms for fan-fiction, insuran
ce papers, correspondence, schedules, and all the rest. Without his help, we would be in a far greater mess than we are!

  And riding tail-guard at the Aerie is Victor Wren, Larry’s assistant and computer guru extraordinaire. It is Victor’s expertise that makes it possible for us to bring you the images you have seen in this book; Larry’s pencil drawings are scanned into their computer imaging system, Larry and Victor retouch them there, add special effects, then print them out as camera-ready halftones.

  We have had the help of fellow wildlife rehabbers, fellow members of NAFA (North American Falconry Association), and others who devote themselves to preserving the wild for future generations.

  There are our friends in the field—Andre Norton, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Anne McCaffrey, Ellen Guon, Holly Lisle, Josepha Sherman, Martin Greenberg, Mike Resnick, Judith Tarr, Esther Friesner, Lisa Waters, Ru Emerson, Tanya Huff, Elizabeth Moon, C.J. Cherryh, Terri Lee, Nancy Asire, and many others.

  Last, and surely the best, are the fans. “Herald House-Mother,” Judith Louvis, who runs the fan club “Queen’s Own,” all of the editors and contributors of the fanzines, the folk in “Queen’s Own Online—Modems of the Queen” on GEnie, and all of you who have enjoyed these stories and keep asking for more. This is a heartfelt acknowledgment and sincere thanks to all of you. We will be writing of Heralds and Companions, Shin’a’in, Tayledras, and Kaled’a’in, the past and future of Valdemar—oh yes, and the Eastern Empire—for as long as you care to read the stories.

  Zhai’helleva!

  Mercedes Lackey

  MERCEDES LACKEY

  The Novels of Valdemar

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