Winds of Fury (20 page)

Well, what went for Ancar also went for the woman. More so, actually, since Ancar wanted Falconsbane to increase his own power, and the woman would naturally want to eliminate
both
of them once she discovered the conspiracy against her. He would need to offer nothing more than access to Falconsbane—he could turn the tables on both Ancar and Falconsbane, and reveal himself to this “Hulda.” But
she
was an Adept as well, and she would be just as likely to use An'desha to destroy Falconsbane, then proceed to finish the job by ridding herself of An'desha. What did
she
need him for, after all? She had power of her own, and no fear of using it. And she was just as depraved as her former pupil. More; after all, she had schooled him in depravity.

There was a last possibility, as disgusting as it was. He could reveal his presence to Falconsbane, and strike a bargain with him. The “coercions” Falconsbane kept thinking about had been put on the Adept, not on An'desha. If Falconsbane cared to remain in a passive mode and simply instruct An'desha, the Shin'a'in might be able to use their powers to free both of them. . . .

Yes, he could try to strike a bargain to that effect. Offer Falconsbane the way out of this gilded trap in return for simple survival; taking no more than he already had, a little corner of the Adept's mind.

Except that such a bargain would make him no better than Falconsbane; to
know
everything the creature had done and turn a blind eye to it in the hope of staying “alive” was as nauseating as anything Falconsbane himself had ever done. It would be a betrayal of all those Falconsbane had destroyed. Further, such a plan assumed Falconsbane would actually keep any bargain he made, and nothing of what An'desha knew of him gave any reassurance the Adept would do any such thing.

He felt tied into a hundred knots by conflicting emotions. Only one thing really seemed clear. None of these folk were worth helping. If any of them had ever done a single decent thing in all their lives, they had certainly take pains to insure it went undiscovered.

I must listen to the Avatars and remain quiet.
That was still not only the best plan, it was the only plan.
I must help the Avatars as they ask; I must hope they can help me. That is the only plan, the only decent course to take.

:Wise choice, little one.:
Tre'valen's voice rang in his mind, so clearly that he glanced around, startled, looking for another physical presence in the room. But there was no one there; Tre'valen and Dawnfire rarely made physical manifestations since their first appearance. He understood why now; such things made a disturbance that could be sensed, if one were looking for it with the inner eye.

:Let the Falconsbane sleep,:
the shaman-Avatar continued.
:Meet us upon the Moonpaths, where we cannot be overheard or overlooked.:

With relief, An'desha abandoned his hold on the body he and Falconsbane shared, and turned his focus in the direction Tre'valen had taught him,
within and without
. There was a moment of dizziness, a moment of darkness, and a moment in which he felt he was falling and flying at the same time. Then he found himself standing upon a patch of pristine white sand, in a world made of mist and light, and all that had transpired in the time it took to draw a quick breath.

Tre'valen and Dawnfire were already there, looking quite ordinary, actually, although they glowed with a soft, diffused inner light. It was easier to “see” them here; Tre'valen looked like any of the younger shaman of the Clans, as familiar as his horse or saddle. Lovely Dawnfire on the other hand was garbed in odd clothing that made her look like a slender birch tree wrapped in snow—her hair was long and as white as a snowdrift—and she was as exotic as he had imagined the Hawkbrothers to be when he had first run off to seek them. But her smile and her wink made her still enough like a young scout of the Shin'a'in that he felt comfortable around her.

Except when he looked directly into the eyes of either of them . . . for they shared the same eyes, eyes without pupil, iris, or white; eyes the same bright-spangled black of a starry night sky. The Eyes of the Warrior . . . and the single sign that they were truly Her creatures. Those eyes made him shiver with awe and not a little dread, and reminded him that whatever they
had
been, these two Avatars were not human anymore.

So he tried to avoid looking into their eyes at all; not at all difficult, really, since he tended to keep his own glance fixed firmly on his own clasped hands whenever he spoke with them on the Moonpaths. Strange, how his body
here
looked like the one he had worn before he left his Clan and home, and not like the strange half-beast creature that Mornelithe Falconsbane had twisted it into.

“We have a new teaching for you, An'desha,” Tre'valen said matter-of-factly. “It should help you seal your control over Falconsbane's body so that when he sleeps you will not awaken him by moving the body about.”

Even as he spoke, An'desha felt Dawnfire's mental “hand” brush the surface of his own mind, and he absorbed the lesson effortlessly. And he even managed to smile shyly up into those two pairs of unhuman eyes, in thanks.

He took all the time he needed to study the implanted memory, to examine it and walk its pathway until he was certain he could follow their lesson exactly. And it was a most welcome gift. Such an ability
would
make things easier for him, for if Falconsbane's healing body demanded food while he slept, or made other needs known, such things would eventually wake the Adept so that An'desha must quickly and quietly retreat into watchful hiding. Now he would be able to silence the needs of the body before Falconsbane woke, and that would give him more uninterrupted time in full control. It was only when Falconsbane slept soundly, for instance, that An'desha dared to walk the Moonpaths. He feared, and so had the Avatars warned, that if Falconsbane woke while An'desha was “absent,” An'desha would not be able to rejoin his body without the Adept noticing that something was different.

“Be patient, An'desha,” Tre'valen said, but in a voice full of sympathy and kindness. “We know how tempting it must be to try to find some other, quicker way to rid yourself of the beast. But truly, our way is the surest, and even it is uncertain. We give you only a
chance,
but it is a chance with honor. There would be much less honor in any of the other paths you have contemplated. None of these people are worth the backing, as you yourself thought, much less worth making even temporary allies of them. Even trying to deceive them would be fraught with both peril and dishonor.”

He hung his head in embarrassment and a little shame. Tre'valen was right, of course. And it had been making a choice with no concern for honor that had gotten him here in the first place, a fact that Tre'valen kindly omitted to mention.

“If you are very, very careful,” Dawnfire continued in her high, husky voice, “you will even have ample opportunity to undermine
all
of them.
She
knows; She has faith in your good heart. Remember the Black Riders.”

He looked up again and nodded.
The Swordsworn seldom miss their marks. The Leshy'a Kal'enedral, never.
That was a Shin'a'in proverb as old as the Swordsworn themselves. And yet, in shooting at Falconsbane, ostensibly to kill, they
had
missed, and had left the body holding both An'desha and Falconsbane alive. Then the Black Riders had appeared, bringing gifts that Falconsbane had thought were for him, but were truly for An'desha—a tiny black horse, the kind given to a child on his birthday, the token that he was ready for his first
real
horse and would be permitted to pick out a foal to train on his own. And the black ring, the ring Tre'valen had told him was worn only by those sworn to the service of all
four
faces of the Goddess. An'desha now knew, as Falconsbane did not, that if the Adept had ever held the ring up to strong sunlight, the seemingly opaque black ring would show a fiery heart that contained every color of earth, air, sky and water, a fitting symbol for those sworn to every face of the Shin'a'in Goddess.

And then, after the Black Riders had shown their tokens, Tre'valen and Dawnfire had appeared.

They would not lie. They came to help him;
She
meant to help him save himself, if it could be done. He must not let this fear and uncertainty break him; must not let the filth of Falconsbane destroy his own soul and all his hopes. There was honor in the world, and kindness, and decency.

He must help those who brought those virtues to his aid, even if it meant that he—

He froze for a moment, as the thought ran on to its inescapable conclusion.

There were things worse than death, after delving into Falconsbane's mind he knew that. He would be worse than a rabid animal if he chose his own survival over taking the opportunity to
stop
something like Falconsbane.

And this was a thought that would never have occurred to the “old” An'desha.

Old. . . .
He suddenly felt old, a thousand years old, and weary—and very frightened. But quite, quite sure of himself now.

A faintly-glowing hand touched his; it was joined by another. He looked up to see the Avatars standing one on either side of him, clasping their hands over the ones he had locked in front of himself. The warmth of their care and concern filled him; their friendship warmed the cold heart of him.

“Thank you, An'desha.” That was all that Tre'valen had to say, but An'desha knew that the Avatar had read his internal struggle and his conclusion and approved. He looked down again, but this time it was with a glow of pride. Whatever else came of this—
Her
chosen servants had given him their own accolade.

“We did not wish to prompt you into that decision, but now that you have made it, we can be more open with you,” Dawnfire told him. She took her hand from his, although the warmth that had filled him remained, and she cupped some of the mist that eddied about them in her hands. “Look here—” she continued, and the handful of mist glowed, and vague figures formed and sharpened within it. He recognized most of them, both from Falconsbane's memories and from stolen glimpses through Falconsbane's eyes.

Two young Hawkbrothers; one ruggedly handsome, though a trifle careworn, and one that he did not recognize, but who was so beautiful that his breath caught. The first was Falconsbane's old enemy, Darkwind k'Sheyna, the son of the Adept he had corrupted. The second—

“He is Firesong k'Treva, a Healing Adept,” Dawnfire replied to his unvoiced thought. “He is an ally of yours, although neither of you knew it. It was he that came to the aid of k'Sheyna.”

An odd feeling stole over him for a moment, as he stared at that flamboyantly beautiful face. He would like to be more than an ally with
that
one. . . .

He shook his head dismissively as the two figures faded and two more replaced them. One also, he knew. The Outlander from Northern lands, the young woman whose potential Falconsbane desired to devour. Both dressed in white garments, and both with blue-eyed white horses.

“Elspeth and Skif, both what are called ‘Heralds' out of Valdemar. The Heralds are Clan-allies to Tale'sedrin,” Tre'valen added, in a decisive tone, and An'desha nodded. That was all
he
needed. Anyone who had won acceptance of any of the Clans had won it from all. And if they were Clan-allies, An'desha was honor-bound to assist them.

Honor. There it was again. It became easier to understand when one lived it, rather than looking at it from outside.

A single figure took their place, one that could have been a fragile, feminine version of Falconsbane; a young woman with a feline cast to her features, carrying a sword. And, oh, he knew
this
one from many, many of his worst moments, both within Falconsbane's memories and as unwilling witness to atrocity. “Nyara,” he said, biting off the word. His gorge rose at the sight of her, but not because she repulsed him but because what had been done to her by her own father repulsed him.

She is my “daughter” as well, because the body that sired her is mine—but I had nothing to do with it. I did not torture her mind and body. And yet her blood is mine, she is of outClan and Shin'a'in breeding as I am. How much responsibility do I have to her?
It was not the first time he had asked himself that question, but it was the first time he had felt there was any chance he could
do
something about the answer.

It was something he would have to think about for a long time. If he had felt old before, he now felt terribly young. His body might be over half a century old, but
he
often felt as if he were still the boy who had run from his Clan and his responsibilities. His “life,” such as it was, had been lived in moments and glimpses.

“Yes,” Dawnfire replied, “and free of her father. You would find her willing to aid you to the end of her powers. She has a score to settle with Falconsbane.”

Lastly, two other creatures crowded the first out of the mist. Gryphons—and Falconsbane harbored a hatred for gryphons that was quite, quite insane, but these two in particular were apt to trigger rages, for they had eluded and defeated him time and time again, and he would likely do
anything
for a chance to destroy them.

“Treyvan and Hydona, and you would find them as apt to your aid as Nyara,” said Tre'valen. “They have as much to call Falconsbane to account for as Nyara does. He violated their young, among other things.”

Dawnfire opened her hands and the mist flowed away, losing its colors and dispersing into the starlight that surrounded them.