Winds of Fury (17 page)

“I think we can do that,” Skif told Need, feeling much better about the entire relationship than he ever had before. “We'll certainly try.” He squeezed Nyara's hand, not noticing the claws. “And we'll succeed. Won't we?” he finished, looking into her eyes.

“Oh, yes,” she answered, smiling. “I know we will.”

T
reyvan curled his tail around his haunches and waited beside the cave for his mate. He needed to have a discussion with her that he did not want anyone to overhear. Especially not certain interfering spirits. . . .

It had been two days since their unexpected arrival in the Forest of Sorrows. The gryphlets had taken it all in stride, as they always did, and found excuses to chase things and chew on them at every opportunity. Rris had been as faithful as a
hertasi
and infinitely patient. Firesong had apparently come to grips with his changing status—that is, not being fawned over—and his
dyheli
companion remained nonplussed. And Vree—well, Vree had resumed hunting crest-feathers. Treyvan tolerated that. It was something familiar in an unfamiliar environment.

It had taken that long to make certain everything was ready for the Gate to go up—and for Vanyel's protective spells to come down. When the moment came, it would feel to the gryphons like the magical equivalent of a change in air pressure before a storm, then all would be calm. Valdemar had been alerted, and there would be an escort waiting for Elspeth and her friends at the terminus of the Gate.

That would be at the entrance to the family chapel at Ashkevron Manor. It was the only place still standing intact that Vanyel knew well enough to make into a Gate-terminus. The chapel in Companion's Field was a ruin, and Elspeth could not honestly assure him that the Palace still looked the way it had when he was still alive. Doors had been sealed up, new doors had been cut—trim and decorations had been added and taken away.

But nothing ever changed in the core building of the Ashkevron home. Elspeth had told them all she recalled hearing some of the family actually boasting about just that. There was even a story that if anyone ever did anything besides add to the buildings, the ghost of some long-dead ancestor would rise out of the grave to haunt the one who dared change what he had wrought.

Firesong had been of two minds about going on with Elspeth, until Vanyel had brought out an argument the spirit had held in reserve. It had been on the afternoon of the first day, when the Hawkbrother had said, dubiously, “It is all very well for Darkwind to follow Elspeth into her land, but what ties have I to such a place? Especially when I have duties elsewhere. And while it is true enough that I have experience with a living Heartstone, well, so does Darkwind. He knew enough before he became a scout to be counted among the Adepts.”

Vanyel had nodded, acknowledging the truth of that. But then he had countered that argument.
:It is the duty of the Tayledras to heal places where magic has gone wrong,:
he pointed out.
:And that is doubly the duty of a Healing Adept, such as you. True?:

“True enough,” Firesong had replied, warily.

“I—” Firesong had begun, even more warily. “I suppose so—”

:Then what of the consequences if the Heartstone beneath Haven fell into the hands of Ancar and his mages? What if its power were to be mismanaged through ignorance? Isn't it the duty of a Healing Adept to be as concerned with prevention as with results? Shouldn't, in fact, a Healing Adept be more concerned with prevention?:
Vanyel had simply looked at Firesong, as a teacher looks at a student who has failed to study.

Treyvan had seen Elspeth suppress a smile. He knew that she wouldn't be able to resist the opportunity to pay Firesong back. “My stepfather has the earth-sense that a lot of the rulers of Rethwellan have,” she had put in. “He says that Ancar does horrible things to the earth-magics in Hardorn—that during the last war he rode through a place where the magics had been so misused that the area was dying, and it made him ill just to ride across it.”

Vanyel had nodded, as if to say, “There—you see?” and had turned his unwavering gaze back to Firesong.

The young Adept had grumbled something under his breath. “This is blackmail, you know,” he had retorted at last. But when Vanyel did not reply, he had shaken his head, and finally given his reluctant agreement to go. “It may be blackmail, but it is also true,” he had admitted, and had gone off to tell his Clan of the change in plans. “I shudder to think how fickle my home Vale will regard me after all these changes of plan.”

Now it was Treyvan's turn to make a similar decision. Or rather, Treyvan and his mate, together, for he would make no such important decisions without her. They were explorers by choice. They had chosen, together, to be adventurers until the day fortune dashed them on the rocks. Their names would already live on in the stories told by their Clan, Treyvan knew, and perhaps even become legendary after a few more generations. Hadn't they done enough, after all?

Hydona came winging in from above, fanning her wings to break her dive and landing with practiced ease on the grass beside him. “Do not tell me,” she said, snatching playfully at his crest-feathers. “I think I can guesss alrready. You wisssh usss to go with young Elssspeth and Darrrkwind.”

He felt his eyes going round with surprise, and his beak gaped. “But how did you know?” he exclaimed. “Sssurely I sssaid nothing—”

“No, only you have hung upon everrry worrd of thisss Vanyel, and your earrrtuftssss have twitched each time sssomeone hasss even hinted of the grrryphonsss in the Norrth of Valdemarrr.” She shook her head vigorously, and a loose feather flew off and drifted down like a leaf to land in the grass beside her.

He was chagrined, but he had to admit that she was probably right; he
had
been that transparent. But how could he not be? Every Kaled'a'in gryphon knew that of all of the gryphon-wings flying for Mage Urtho, fully half of them had never reached the Gate that had taken the Kaled'a'in safely away before Urtho's stronghold fell. Most of those had been out on the front lines with the army. Of those, some must have died—but surely others had escaped to live elsewhere. There were more than enough mages in Urtho's army to have set up Gates enough to take those fighting to safety as well, before or after the blast that obliterated Urtho's stronghold and Ma'ar's together.

The only way to find out—or at least the only way that would satisfy Treyvan—would be to try to find these gryphons themselves.

“We arrre magesss,” Hydona pointed out thoughtfully. “And both the little onesss have Mage-Gift alssso. We will need to trrrain them—ssso why not trrrain otherrrsss at the sssame time?”

“What, like Herrraldsss?” The idea had already occurred to him, but he was pleased that Hydona had thought of it as well. “It isss trrrue that it would do the little onesss a grrreat deal of good to have sssome competition bessidesss each otherrr. And it could gain usss valuable alliesss.”

Her beak gaped in a gentle grin. Oh, how beautiful she was! “My thought prrrecisssely. Thisss issss why I have alrrready told Vanyel that if you wisshed to go, I would not arrrgue with sssuch a change in plansss.”

He mock-snapped at her. “Imperrrtinent! Making asssumptionsss—”

“Perrrfectly valid onesss,” she pointed out, reaching out to preen his ears. He submitted to her readily, half-closing his eyes in pleasure. “I, of all alive, know you bessst.”

“Verrry well, then,” he said, with feigned reluctance. “I will misss going to Evendim, but perrrhapsss anotherrr time. If you will have it that way, tell thisss Vanyel that we will be going with Elssspth and our otherrr ssson.” He sighed. “I sssupposse it isss jusst asss well. With the way Gating hasss been lately, who knowsss where we might end up otherrrwissse?”

“Mmm,” she agreed, mouth full of his feathers.

He closed his eyes completely, and gave himself up to her ministrations.

 

Ancar started, as a huskily feminine and far-too-familiar voice startled him in the midst of searching through a chest of documents in the war-room.

“Well. What a pleasant surprise. I had not expected to find you here.”

The silky-smooth tone of Hulda's voice sent a shiver of warning up Ancar's back. She only sounded this sweet when she wanted something—or when she was about to confront him over something, and she knew she had the upper hand.

He straightened, slowly, schooling his face into an impassive mask. He should not fear this woman. He had already subdued a powerful, half-human Adept to his will. She was no greater in power than this “Falconsbane” creature. He had no reason to fear her anger.

But her appearance was not reassuring. She was impeccably gowned and coiffed, looking as near to demure as she ever got. That meant she had found out something that she didn't like, and she was going to have it out with him, here and now.

While he smiled and granted her an ironic little bow, his thoughts raced behind his careful shields. Could she have discovered Falconsbane? But how? He had been so careful. No one came near the creature but those servants he himself controlled.

“Why, my dear teacher, how pleasant to see
you
, after so very long,” he replied carefully. “I had thought that your new young friend was occupying all your time—”

“Enough fencing, child,” she snapped at him. “We both know you've been up to something, meddling with energies you shouldn't have touched! And so does every mage sensitive to the flows of power! Your fumbling created some unpleasant echoes and ripples that are
still
causing me problems with my own spells, and I wonder how any of your pets are getting anything at all done!”

“My fumblings?” He felt sweat trickling down his back beneath his heavy velvet tunic, and he hoped that he wasn't sweating anywhere that she would notice. “What are you talking about?” Could it be that she actually didn't know what he had done?

“Don't try to toy with me, boy!” she growled. “You were playing with some kind of odd spell or other, and it was either something you made up yourself, or something you got out of one of your damned scraps of half-literate grimoires! Which was it?”

Before he could answer, she cut him off with a gesture. “Never mind,” she said. “Don't bother to lie to me. I'll tell you what it was. You were trying to build a Gate, weren't you?”

He stared at her dumbly as she continued, her strange violet eyes flashing with scorn.

“You haven't even the sense to
fear
a Gate Spell, you fool!” she snarled. “Don't you know what the thing would have done if you hadn't broken it first? It would have turned back on you and eaten you alive! Building a Gate without knowing
where
you want it to go, precisely and exactly where, is the kind of mistake that will be your last! You must have used up a lifetime's worth of luck to escape that fate, you blithering idiot.”

She went on and on at some length in the same vein; he simply hung his head so that she could not see his eyes and nodded like the foolish child she had named him. He stared at his feet as his sweat cooled, and his flush of fear faded. But beneath his submissive behavior, he was wildly excited and he did not want her to realize what she had just told him.

She had answered his every question about the so-called “portal” he had created! It was not a way to pull in node-energy, but was instead something entirely different, a way to create a doorway that would lead him instantly to any place he chose!

She had given him a weapon of incredible power and versatility, without knowing what she had done. Already he could imagine hundreds of ways to use such doorways.

He could simply step through such a door and into the very heart of a citadel. He could move entire armies without wearying them. He could use these doors to obtain anything or anyone he wanted, without worrying about such pesky complications as guards, locks, or discovery. . . .

As she railed on, pacing back and forth like a restless panther in her black velvet, he also realized from what she did
not
say that she was completely unaware that he had brought anything through his Gate.

She mentioned nothing of the sort, in fact, not even as a horrible possibility. She seemed to be under the impression that he had sensed the Gate turning back on him and, in a panic, had broken the spell, collapsing the Gate upon itself.

He kept his face stiff and expressionless. He answered her, when she demanded answers, in carefully phrased sentences designed to maintain that fiction. The longer he could keep Falconsbane a secret from her, the better.