The Mage Winds E-Book

Mercedes Lackey

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 2257

Beschreibung

Long ago, high magic was lost to Valdemar when the last Herald-Mage gave his life to protect his kingdom from destruction by dark sorceries. But now the protective barrier over Valdemar is crumbling, and with the realm imperiled, Princess Elspeth, Herald and heir to the throne, has gone on a desperate quest in search of a mentor who can teach her to wield her fledgling mage-powers and help her to defend her threatened kingdom.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Also by Mercedes Lackey

Title Page

Copyright

Winds of Fate

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Author’s Note

Winds of Change

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Author’s Note

Winds of Fury

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

Author’s Note

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

Also by Mercedes Lackey and available from Titan Books

THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLESFoundationIntriguesChangesRedoubtBastion

HERALD SPYCloser to HomeCloser to the Heart (October 2015)Closer to the Chest (October 2016)

VALDEMAR OMNIBUSESThe Heralds of ValdemarThe Mage Storms (September 2015)

THE ELEMENTAL MASTERSThe Serpent’s ShadowThe Gates of SleepPhoenix and AshesThe Wizard of LondonReserved for the CatUnnatural IssueHome from the SeaSteadfastBlood Red

The Mage Winds Omnibus

Print edition ISBN: 9781783293803

E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296538

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London

SE1 0UP

First edition: March 2015

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Mercedes Lackey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 1991, 1992, 1993, 2015 by Mercedes R. Lackey. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

WINDS of FATE

BOOK ONE of The MAGE WINDS

Dedicated to the memory of Donald A. Wollheim A gentleman and a scholar

PROLOGUE

THE LEGEND

Long ago, in the days of the first King, for whom the Kingdom of Valdemar is named, it came to the King that he was growing old. Now Valdemar had led his people out of the hands of a tyrannical monarch and had no wish to see them fall again into the hands of tyranny. He knew that his son and Heir was a worthy, honest man—but what of his son’s sons, and theirs?

He longed for a way to determine who would be a worthy successor to the throne, so that Valdemar the kingdom need never become less free than it was at that moment.

So he went into the fields and gardens beside the Palace, alone, and wrought what was half a prayer and half a spell, begging all benign Powers for their aid in this desire of his.

And as the last rays of the sun died from the sky, there was a mighty wind, and a shaking of the ground, and out of the grove of trees before him came a being like unto a white horse. And it spoke into his mind—

Then came a second, and a third, and before Valdemar could think to question why these came, his own son and his chief herald came to the place as if they had been called. And these two beings spoke into their minds also, saying, “I Choose you.” So did the king know then that these Companions would choose only worthy folk to bear them company, for all their lives—and that these folk would be the instrument of justice and honor for all of the Kingdom from this moment. So did he name those Chosen by Companions to be Heralds, for only one could be a Monarch, and only one could be the Heir, but all could aspire to be a Herald. And he had made for them clothing of white, like the coats of their Companions, so that all might know them at a distance, or in a crowd; and he decreed then that only a Herald could be the Heir or the Monarch. And he decreed that there should be one Herald always to advise and serve and befriend the Monarch, so that his decisions be tempered with another view, and that Herald was to be called the Monarch’s Own.

So it was. And so Valdemar has prospered. The Heralds increased, and the Monarch’s justice spread.

THE CHRONICLES

In the first year of Herald Talia’s investiture as full Queen’s Own, Prince Ancar of Hardorn slew his father and all his father’s men in a bloody and successful attempt to take the throne. He slew also Herald Kris who was there as ambassador on behalf of Queen Selenay, and imprisoned and tortured Herald Talia who was with him. She was rescued, out of all expectations, by the power of Herald Dirk, the young Heir Elspeth, and all the Companions together. Such a thing had never been known before, that the Companions would all add their strength to the Heralds to accomplish a task.

Ancar then made a trial of the strength of Valdemar, using both magic and his private army, but he was thrown back.

Some two years later, he made trial of the borders again. This time he was beaten back by the combined forces of the mercenary Company the Skybolts, under Captain Kerowyn; the armies of Valdemar; and the army of Rethwellan under Lord-Martial Prince Daren, who had come in answer to a promise of aid long forgotten. In the heat of the battle, the Prince and the Captain lost their horses and were both Chosen—and the Prince and Queen were taken with a lifebonding, a circumstance that both pleased and disturbed many.

Our ancient enemy, Karse, remains quiet, for Karse is beset with internal troubles. Ancar makes incursions on the Border from time to time; nothing but feints, however. So it has been to this day, some seven years from the last battle, when the events occurred that I now relate…

Herald-Chronicler Myste

1

ELSPETH

“But—” Elspeth protested weakly. The empty salle echoed back her words faintly. She stared at Herald Kerowyn and tried to make some sense of what she’d just been ordered to do. Repair armor? Why should I repair armor? I don’t even know the first thing about repairing armor! And what does that have to do with anything? She sat down, her arms sagging beneath the weight of a set of worn-out leather practice armor, a set long past its useful lifespan, and smelling faintly of sweat, leather-oil, and dust. “But I—”

“You know leatherwork, don’t you?” Kerowyn asked, her generous mouth twitching as if she were trying not to laugh. Elspeth squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden bench, feeling very much like a tiny brown mouse facing a bored cat.

“Yes, but—”

“You’ve seen me and Alberich repair armor before, haven’t you?” the mercenary-captain-turned-Herald continued with patient logic, arms folded across her chest. Elspeth looked from Kerowyn’s weather-tanned face to the dust motes dancing in the sunlight to the whitewashed walls of the salle in hope of finding an answer.

She was unable to come up with one. She’d been put directly under Kerowyn’s command this week, in lieu of the “usual” duties of a Herald. Those “usual” duties—riding circuit on a Sector, acting as lawbringer, occasional judge, paramilitary advisor, and general troubleshooter—brought a Herald into areas of significant risk—risk the Council was not willing to take with the Heir to the Throne.

So her assigned duty at the moment consisted of doing whatever Herald Kerowyn told her to do. She’d assumed her tasks would be things like acting as an assistant trainer, perhaps. Learning command tactics. Perhaps even acting as liaison between Kerowyn’s mercenary Company and the Council.

Especially since the Council members still weren’t certain what to do with a mercenary Captain who was also a Herald.

These were all things she knew how to do—or at least make a start on. After all, those were the kinds of things Heralds were supposed to do. They were not supposed to be repairing armor.

“Yes, but—” she repeated weakly, not knowing what else to say.

“You don’t happen to think you’re too good to repair armor…” Kerowyn’s tone held a certain silky menace that told Elspeth that someone had given Herald Kerowyn chapter and verse on the ill-tempered Royal Brat. Of course, the Brat was a phase she had long ago outgrown, but some people couldn’t seem to forget that stage of her life.

“No!” she said hastily. “But—”

“But why do I want you to repair armor—especially when it’s someone else’s job?” Kerowyn unbent enough to smile and shifted her weight to her right foot. “Let’s play ‘just suppose’ for a moment. Let’s suppose you are—for some reason—out in the back of beyond. Not even alone. We could have a situation like the one that brought me up here in the first place—where you’re with a fighting force, maybe even in command, but there aren’t any armorers around.” She gestured at the pile of leather in Elspeth’s arms. “Your gear gets damaged, and there’s nobody free to fix it. What are you going to do, wear something with a weak spot and hope nobody notices? Hope you can find somebody to fix it before the next engagement?”

“Did you ever have to fix your own gear?” Elspeth countered. She had so been looking forward to a free afternoon.

“I assume you mean after I made Captain?” The Herald laughed out loud, displaying a fine set of strong, white teeth. “My dear child, the Skybolts were so badly off that first year that I helped make armor. And arrows and lances and even some horse-gear. No, dear, you aren’t going to wiggle out of this one. Leather armor isn’t that hard to repair; merely time-consuming. So I suggest you get to it. As for how, you take apart everything that doesn’t look solid and replace it.” The former—and current—Captain of “Kerowyn’s Skybolts” nodded her blonde head emphatically and turned away toward the heap of practice armor that had been tossed into the “needs repair” pile.

Resigned to the situation, Elspeth watched Kero toss her blonde braid over her shoulder, thought of her own dull brown hair, and sighed a little enviously. If I weren’t the Heir, nobody would ever pay any attention to my looks. Mother is gorgeous, the twins are adorable, my stepfather is the handsomest man at Court—and I’m the little brown sparrow. Why couldn’t I have been born looking like her?

Kerowyn was certainly an amazing person. Lithe, strong, and with a face even her critics had to call “striking,” she would have had dozens of suitors if it hadn’t been for the fact that she and Herald Eldan discouraged even the most persistent with their devotion to one another. The Captain had been blessed with a head of hair as bright as new-minted gold and thick as a horse’s tail. And despite the fact that she was literally old enough to be Elspeth’s mother, it showed no sign of graying. Whatever Kerowyn’s past life had been like, it had left no outward marks on her. And from the stories Kero had told over the past few years, she’d been through enough to gray the hair of four women.

For that matter, her present was just as hectic, and it hadn’t left that much of a mark on her. She juggled two dedications, Herald and mercenary Captain, either one of which would have been a full-time career for anyone else.

And there are plenty of folk who think she should stick to one or the other… Elspeth smiled to herself. Those were the same folk who were mightily annoyed that the Herald Captain wouldn’t wear Whites unless it was ordered by the Queen herself. She compromised—if one could call it that—by wearing the same kind of dark gray leathers the Weaponsmaster favored. And the Queen smiled and held her peace. Like Alberich, Kerowyn was a law unto herself.

“Besides, you have all the resources of the armory at your disposal,” Kerowyn said over her shoulder, as she hefted another corselet in need of repair—this one of metal scale, a mending task Elspeth didn’t even want to think about. “You wouldn’t have that in the field. Be grateful I don’t demand that you fix it with what folks carry in their field kits.”

Elspeth bit back a retort and spread the shirt out over the bench she was sitting on, giving the armor the kind of careful scrutiny she imagined Kero must have.

Well, it isn’t as bad as I thought, she decided, after a second examination proved that some of the worst places had already been repaired. Evidently the Captain had taken that much pity on her…

She bent to her task, determined to make as good a job of it as Kerowyn would.

Her determination did not last more than a few moments.

Someone distracted her as soon as she turned her attention to a tricky bit of stitchery that had to be picked out without ruining the leather. A whisper of air was all that warned her of the attacker’s rush—but that was all the warning she needed. What Weaponsmaster Alberich had not pounded into her, the Herald Captain was making certain she learned, and in quick-time, too. And Kerowyn was a past master of the unconventional.

:Gwena!: she screamed mentally, as she acted on what had become reflex. She tumbled off her bench, hit the hard wooden floor with her shoulder, and rolled. She came up on the balls of her feet, poised and ready, the tiny knife she’d been using to cut the stitches still in her hand. Her heart pounded, but from battle-readiness, not fear.

She found herself facing someone who had recovered just as rapidly as she had; he stood in a near-identical pose on the opposite side of the bench, and she sized him up quickly. Taller and heavier than she, an anonymous male, in nondescript clothing, his face wrapped in a scarf and head covered with a tight hood, so that all she could see were his wary eyes.

A thousand fleeting thoughts passed through her mind in that moment of analysis. Uppermost was a second mental scream for help to her Companion Gwena. Hard on the heels of that was the sudden question: Why doesn’t Kero do anything? She glanced out of the corner of her eye. The Captain stood with arms crossed, watching both of them, no discernible expression on her handsome face.

The obvious answer was implied by the question. Because she was expecting this.

And because Kerowyn was a Herald and her Companion Sayvil would never permit her to betray another, and further, because Elspeth’s own Companion Gwena was not beating down the doors of the salle to get in and help her stand off this attacker, it followed that the “assassin” was nothing of the sort.

Her heart slowed a little, and she dared a mental touch. Nothing: her assailant was shielded. Which meant he knew how to guard his thoughts, which only another Mindspeaker could do.

And a closer look at the bright brown eyes, and the additional clue of a curl of black hair showing outside the assailant’s hood gave her all the information she needed to identify him.

“Skif,” she said flatly, relaxing a little.

:Good girl,: came the voice in her mind. :I told Sayvil you’d figure this out before it got anywhere, but she didn’t believe me.:

She shifted her gaze over to Kerowyn, though without taking Skif out of her line of sight. “This was a setup, wasn’t it?” she asked the older woman. “You never really intended for me to fix that armor.”

Kero shrugged, not at all discomfited. “Hell, yes, I did. And tomorrow, you will. But I also intended for you to figure out that you could,” she temporized as Skif relaxed minutely. “That’s a good thing for you to know if you’re ever in the situation I described. If you don’t know you can do something, it doesn’t occur to you as an option. But don’t relax,” her voice sharpened as Skif started to come out of his crouch and Elspeth followed suit. “Just because you’ve identified him, that doesn’t mean that the rest of the exercise is canceled. Take it up where you left off.”

“With this?” Elspeth looked doubtfully at the tiny knife in her hand.

“With that—and anything else you can get your hands on. There’re hundreds of things you can use in here, including that bench.” Kerowyn frowned slightly. “Anything can be a weapon, child. It’s time you learned to improvise.”

Kerowyn did not have to outline the reasons for that statement; even if the current interkingdom situation had been full of light and harmony, there would always be the risk of someone with a grudge or grievance—or even a simple lunatic—who would be willing to risk his life to assassinate the next in line to the throne of Valdemar.

And with at least two enemies on the borders, Hardorn and Karse, the political situation was far from harmonious.

Still—Anything can be a weapon? What on earth is she talking about?

But she didn’t have time to question the statement in detail. Elspeth went back on guard just in time to dodge Skif’s rush for her.

She sidestepped him and reversed the knife, not wanting to really hurt him, and feinted for his eyes with the wooden hilt. He recognized the feint for what it was and ignored it, coming in to grapple with her. So far he hadn’t produced any weapons of his own.

So his “orders” must be to capture rather than to kill. That makes my job easier and his harder…

Relatively easier. Skif had learned his hand-to-hand skills in the rough world of Haven’s slums. Even the capital of Valdemar was prone to the twin problems of crime and poverty, and young Skif had been the godchild of both. Orphaned early, he had apprenticed himself to a thieving uncle, and when that worthy was caught, set up shop on his own. Probably only being Chosen had saved him from hanging like his uncle—or death at the hands of a competitor, like his mother.

His “style” was a mixture of disciplines—a kind of catch-all, “anything that works,” devious, dirty, and deadly. The Queen’s Own Herald, Talia, had learned quite a bit from him, but no one had ever thought to have him teach Elspeth as well. At least—not that. He had taught her knife-throwing, which had saved her life and Talia’s, but even Queen Selenay had been horrified a few short years ago at the notion of her Heir learning street-fighting. Elspeth had begged but to no avail.

Many things had changed in those few years. Among them, the arrival of Kerowyn, who had sent one of her commandos to prove to Selenay that she and her daughter needed the kind of protection only instruction in the lowest forms of fighting could provide. Alberich undertook the Queen’s instruction; Kero and Skif got Elspeth’s. The lessons were frequently painful.

Dirk’s taught me a thing or two since the last lesson—she told herself as she circled him warily, testing her footing as she watched his eyes—and I bet neither of them knows that.

She sensed the pile of armor behind her, and tried to remember what was topmost. Was it something she could throw over his head to temporarily blind him?

“Pick up the pace, boy,” Kerowyn said. “Take some chances. You only have a few more moments before she either calls for help herself with Mindspeech, or her Companion brings the cavalry.”

Skif lunged just as she made a grab for the nearest piece of junk, a leather gambeson. He waited until she moved, then struck like a coiled snake. He caught her in the act of bending over sideways and tackled her, both of them flying over the pile and landing in a heap on the other side of it. Her knife went skidding across the floor as her cheek hit the gritty floor, all the breath knocked out of her.

She writhed in his grip and grabbed the edge of his hood and tried to pull it down over his eyes, but it was too tightly wrapped. She struggled to get her knee up into his stomach, clawed at the wrappings around his head with no effect, and kicked ineffectually at the back of his legs. He simply pinned her with his greater weight, and slapped the side of her head at the same time, calling out “Disable!”

Damn. She obediently went limp. He scrambled to his feet, heaved her up like a sack of grain, slung her over his shoulder and started for the door. She watched the floor and his boots, and wondered what her Companion was supposed to be doing while the “assassin” was carrying her off.

:Not that way,: Gwena said calmly in her mind, right on cue. :I’ve got the front door blocked, and Sayvil has the rear. The only way out is by way of the roof.:

“No good, Skif,” Elspeth said to his belt. “The Companions have you boxed in.”

“Well, then I’ll have to abort and follow my secondary orders,” he replied. “Sorry, little kitten, you’re dead.”

He put her down on her feet, and she dusted herself off. “Crap,” she said sourly. “I could do better than that. I wish I’d had my knives.” She couldn’t resist a resentful glance at Kero, who had made her take them off when she entered the salle.

“Well,” Kero told her. “You didn’t do as badly as I had expected. But I told you to get rid of those little toys of yours for a reason. They aren’t a secret anymore; everybody knows you carry them in arm-sheaths. And you’ve begun to depend on them; you passed up at least a half dozen potential weapons.”

Elspeth’s heart sank as Skif nodded to confirm Kerowyn’s assessment. “Like what?” she demanded. She didn’t—quite—growl. It was ironic that a room devoted to weaponswork should be so barren of weaponry. There was nothing in the room; at least, nothing that could be used against an enemy. The salle’s sanded wooden floor stood empty of everything but the bench she sat on and the pile of discarded armor. There were a few implements for mending the armor that she’d brought in from the back room. There were no windows that she could reach; they were all set in the walls near the edge of the ceiling. Even the walls were bare of practice weapons, just the empty racks along one wall and the expensive—but necessary—mirrors on the other.

“The bench,” Skif said promptly. “You were within range to kick it into my path.”

“You should have grabbed that leather corselet when you went off the bench,” Kero added.

“Any of the mirrors—break one and you’ve got a pile of razor shards.”

“The sunlight—maneuver him so that it’s in his eyes.”

“The mirrors again; distract me with my own reflection.”

“The leather-needles—”

“The pot of leather-oil—”

“Your belt—”

“All right!” Elspeth cried, plopping down heavily on the bench, defeated by their logic. “What’s the point?”

“Something that you can learn, but I can’t teach in simple lessons,” Kerowyn told her soberly. “An attitude. A state of awareness, one where you size everyone up as a potential enemy, and everything as a potential weapon. And I mean everyone and everything. From the stranger walking toward you, to your mother—from the halberd on the wall to your underwear.”

“I can’t live like that,” she protested. “Nobody can.” But at Kero’s raised eyebrow, she added doubtfully, “Can they?”

Kero shrugged. “Personally, I think no royalty can afford to live without an outlook like that. And I’ve managed, for most of my life.”

“So have I,” Skif seconded. “It doesn’t have to poison you or your life, just make you more aware of things going on around you.”

“That’s why we’ve started the program here,” Kerowyn finished. “A salle is a pretty empty room even with repair stuff scattered all over it; that makes your job easier. Now,” she fixed Elspeth with a stern blue-green eye, “before you leave, you’re going to figure out one way everything in here could be used against an assailant.”

Elspeth sighed, bade farewell to her free afternoon, and began pummeling her brain for answers.

* * *

Eventually Kero left for other tasks, putting Skif in charge of the lesson. Elspeth breathed a little easier when she was gone; Skif was nowhere near the taskmaster that Kerowyn could be when the mood was on her. Heraldic trainees at the Collegium used to complain of Alberich’s lessons; now they moaned about Kerowyn’s as well, and it was an open question as to which of the two was considered the worst. Elspeth had once heard a young girl complain that it was bad enough that the Weaponsmaster refused to grow old and retire, but now he’d cursed them with a female double and it wasn’t fair!

But then again, she had thought at the time, what is?

Skif grilled her for a little longer, then took pity on her, and turned the lesson from one on “attitude” to simply a rough-and-tumble knife-fighting lesson. Elspeth found the latter much easier on the nerves, if not on the body. Skif might be inclined to go easy on her when it came to the abstract “lessons,” but when it came to the physical he could be as remorseless as any of the instructors when he chose.

Finally, when both were tired enough that they were missing elementary moves, he called a halt.

In fact, she thought wearily, as he waved her off guard and stepped off the salle floor, I doubt I could be a match for a novice right now.

“That’s… enough,” he panted, throwing himself down on the floor beside the bench, as she slumped down on the seat and then sprawled along the length of it, shoving the forgotten leather armor to the floor. The angle of the sunlight coming in through the high clerestory windows had changed; there was no longer a broad patch of sunlight on the floor. It was starting to climb up the whitewashed wall. Not yet dinnertime, but certainly late afternoon.

“I have to get back to drilling the little ones in a bit,” he continued. “Besides, if I spend too much more time in your unchaperoned company, the rumors are going to start again, and I don’t feel like dealing with them.”

Elspeth grimaced and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. The last time rumors had started about a romance between her and Skif, she’d had to placate half the Council, and endure the knowing looks of half the Heralds. She wasn’t sure which group was worse.

Now I know how Mother and Stepfather felt when they were my age. Every time someone gets interested—or interesting—most of the time they’re frightened off by the matchmakers. You’d think people would have more important things to worry about.

But it was too bad poor Skif had to pay the price of her rank. There ought to be something she could do about that, but right now her weary mind was not supplying the answer.

“I’ll see you later, then,” she said instead. “I’ve got a few things of my own I’d like to do before dinner—if you’re satisfied with my progress, that is.”

“You’re getting there,” he told her, getting up with an effort, his sweat-damp hair curled even tighter. “I was making more mistakes than you were, toward the end. What’s the closest weapon to your right hand?”

“The bench I’m on,” she replied without thinking. “I roll off it and kick it in your direction.”

“I was thinking of the shears on the floor there, but that’ll do,” he said with a tired chuckle. “See you at dinner?”

“Not tonight. There’s some delegation from Rethwellan here to see Father. That means all meals with the Court until they’re gone.” She levered herself up on her elbows and smiled apologetically. “I guess they won’t believe I’m not plotting against the rest of the family unless they see us all together.”

Skif was too polite to say anything, but they both knew why that suspicion of treason might occur to a delegation from Rethwellan. Elspeth’s blood-father, a prince of Rethwellan, had plotted to overthrow his own wife and consort, Queen Selenay—and in the end, had attempted to assassinate her himself.

Not the best way to handle foreign relations…

As it happened, though, no one in Rethwellan had any idea he might attempt such a thing—certainly there was no one in the royal family who had backed him. In fact, there had been no love lost between him and his two brothers, and there had been no repercussions from Rethwellan at the news that he had not survived that assassination attempt. The Queen quietly accepted King Faramentha’s horrified apologies and disclaimers, and there the matter had rested for many years.

But then war and the redemption of a promise made to Selenay’s grandfather had brought one of those brothers, Prince Daren, to the aid of the Queen of Valdemar, and the unexpected result of that first meeting had been not only love, but a lifebonding. Rethwellan lost its Lord-Martial, and Valdemar gained a co-ruler, for Daren, like Kerowyn, had been Chosen, literally on the battlefield.

Whether the bedding had followed or preceded the wedding was moot; the result had been twins, nine months to the day after the ceremony. Which left the titular Heir, Elspeth, with two unexpected rivals for her position. Elspeth, whose father had tried to murder the Queen and steal her throne… And there were the inevitable whispers of “bad blood.”

King Faram, the current king of Rethwellan and brother to both her father and stepfather, held no such doubts about her, but occasionally some of his advisors required a reminder that treason was not a heritable trait. Elspeth slipped out of her musings and stretched protesting muscles.

“I wish—!” she began, and stopped.

“You wish what, kitten?” Skif prompted.

“Never mind,” she said, dragging herself to her feet. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, after Council. Assuming Kerowyn doesn’t have me mucking out the stables or something equally virtuous and valuable.”

He chuckled and left the salle, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

She cleaned up the scattered equipment from their lesson while the sweat of her exertion cooled and dried, and took herself out before her erstwhile mentor could return and find her “idle.”

A warm summer wind whipped her hair out of its knot at the back of her neck, and dried her sweat-soaked shirt as she left the salle door. She made a hasty check for possible watchers, trotted around the side of the salle, and didn’t slow until she reached the edge of the formal gardens and the relative shelter of the tall hedges. The path she took, from the formal garden and the maze to the herb and kitchen gardens of the Palace, was one normally used only by the Palace’s husbandmen. It ran along the back of a row of hedges that concealed a line of storage buildings and potting sheds. She wasn’t surprised that there was no one on it, since there was nothing to recommend it but its relative isolation, a commodity in short supply at the Palace/Collegium complex. Not the sort of route that anyone would expect to find her taking. Nor was her destination what anyone who didn’t know her well would expect. It was a simple potting shed, a nondescript little building distinguished from its fellows only by the stovepipe, a stone kiln, and the small, glazed window high up on one side. And even then, there was no reason to assume it was special; the kiln had been there for years, and had been used to fire terracotta pots for seedlings and winter herbs.

Which made it all the more valuable to Elspeth.

She opened the door and closed it behind her with a feeling of having dropped a tremendous weight from her shoulders. This unprepossessing kingdom was hers, and hers alone, by unspoken agreement. So long as she did not neglect her duties, no one would bother her here, not unless the situation were direst emergency.

A tiny enough kingdom; one bench in the middle with a stool beside it, one sink and hand pump, one potter’s wheel, boxes of clay ready for working, shelves, and a stove to heat the place in the winter and double as a small bisque-firing kiln in the rear. But not one implement here reminded her of the Heir or the Heir’s duties. This was the one place where Elspeth could be just Elspeth, and nothing more. A proper kingdom as far as she was concerned; she’d been having second thoughts about ruling anything larger for some time now.

Up on the highest shelf were the finished products—which was to say the ones, to her critical eye, worth keeping—of her own two hands. They began with her first perfectly thrown pots and bowls, ranged through more complicated projects, and ended with some of the results of her current efforts—poured-slip pieces cast from molds that had in turn been made from her own work.

The twins were going through a competitive stage at the moment—and any time one of them got something, the other had to have something just like it. But different. If Kris got a toy horse, Lyra had to have a toy horse—same size, shape, length of tail, and equipage. But if Kris’ horse was chestnut, hers had to be bay, dapple-gray, or roan. If he got a toy fort, she had to have a toy village; same size, number of buildings, number of toy inhabitants as his fort. And so on. The only thing they agreed on was toy Companions; they had to be twins, like the twins themselves.

Not that they need “toy” Companions, Elspeth thought with amusement. They have the real thing following them around by the nose every time Mother takes them with her into the Field. No doubts there about whether or not they’ll be Chosen!

In fact, Gwena had remarked more than once that the only question involved would be which Companion did the Choosing. There were apparently a number in the running. :Mark my words,: she’d said with amusement. :There are going to be fights over this in a couple of years.:

But that made gift giving both harder and easier. Trying to find—or make—absolutely identical presents in differing colors had been driving Elspeth (and everyone else) to distraction. They were able to pick out the most amazing discrepancies and turn them into points of contention over whose present was “better.” Finally, though, she’d hit on the notion of making a mold and copying a successful piece. Her first effort had been a pair of dragon-lamps, or rather, night-lights; comical, roly-poly fellows who gently burned lamp-oil at a wick in their open mouths. Those had been such a hit that Elspeth had decided to try dolls, specifically, dolls that looked as much like the twins themselves as she—who was not exactly a portrait sculptor—could manage.

It’s a good thing that they’re in that vague sort of “child-shaped” stage, she thought wryly, as she surveyed the row of greenware heads waiting to be cleaned of mold-marks and sorted for discards. I doubt if I could produce anything more detailed than that.

Well, dressing the completed dolls in miniatures of the twins’ favorite outfits would take care of the rest. And providing the appropriate accessories, of course. She would have to appeal for help on that. To Talia for the outfits, since she could probably bribe the Queen’s Own with an offer of another doll for Talia’s son Jemmie; her plain-sewing was as good as many of the seamstresses attached to the Palace staff, though her embroidery was still “enough to make a cat laugh,” as she put it. To Keren for the rest. Lyra was in a horse-crazy phase at the moment, a bit young for that, perhaps, but the twins—and Jemmie—were precocious in most areas. Kris had gone mad for the Guard; half the time, when asked, he would assert that he wanted to be a Guard-Captain when he grew up (which usually made any nearby Companions snort). Tiny swords and miniature riding boots were a little out of Elspeth’s line, but perhaps Keren or Sherrill, Keren’s lifemate, could arrive at a solution.

The first three heads weren’t worth bothering with; bubbles in the slip had flawed the castings badly enough to crack when they were fired. The fourth was perfect; the fifth, possible, and the sixth—

The arrangement of the window and door in the shed made it a regrettable necessity that she sit with her back to the door. That being the case, she had left the hinges unoiled. It simply was not possible to open the door, however carefully, without at least some noise, however slight.

She froze as she heard the faintest of telltale squeaks from behind her, then continued examining the head as if she had heard nothing. A lightning-quick mental probe behind her revealed that it was Skif—again—at the door. This time his thoughts were unguarded. He assumed that she had already put this afternoon’s lessons out of her mind, a little tired and careless, here in the heart of the Palace grounds.

Not a chance, friend, she thought. And as he slipped through the door, she shifted her weight off the stool she had been using, and hooked one foot around one of the legs.

At a moment when he was poised and unbalanced, she pulled the stool over, whirled, and kicked it under his feet, all with a single motion.

He was hardly expecting opposition, much less that he would be on the defensive. He lost his balance as his feet got tangled up with the stool and couldn’t recover. He fell over backward with a crash of splintering wood as her stool went with him, landing ingloriously on his rear. She stood over him, shaking her head, as he blinked up at her and grinned feebly.

“Uh—”

“Ever heard of knocking?” she asked. She picked up her stool without offering him a hand and made a face. He’d broken two of the bottom rungs and loosened all four of the legs, and it had not been that sturdy to begin with.

“You owe me a new chair,” she said, annoyed all out of proportion to the value of the stool. “That wasn’t just a dirty trick, Skif, that was dangerous. You could have broken some of my best pieces, too.”

“Almost broke some of mine,” he grumbled. “You aren’t going to get an apology, if that’s what you’re looking for. You knew very well we’d be springing these surprise attacks on you.”

But not in the one place I can relax, she thought, seething with resentment. Not in the only place I can get away from everything and everyone.

“You still owe me, lout,” she said stubbornly, righting the stool and rocking it to check how wobbly it was going to be. She sat on it and folded her arms, making no attempt to disguise how put out she was. “You still could have broken something. I don’t ask for much, Skif, and I give up a lot. I think it’s only fair to be off-limits when I’m out here.”

He didn’t say, Will an attacker go along with that? and he didn’t give her a lecture, which mollified her a little. Instead, he grinned ingenuously and pulled himself up from the floor, dusting off his white uniform once he reached his feet. “I really have to congratulate you,” he said. “You did a lot better than I expected. I deliberately came after you when I knew you were tired and likely to be careless.”

“I know,” she said crisply, and watched his bushy eyebrows rise as he realized what that meant. First, that she’d detected him soon enough to make a mental test of him, and second that she’d gone ahead and read his thoughts when she knew who it was. The second was a trifle unethical; Heralds were not supposed to read other’s thoughts without them being aware of the fact. But if he was going to violate her precious bit of privacy, she was going to pay him back for it. Let him wonder how much else I read while I was peeking and sweat about it a little.

“Oh.” He certainly knew better than to chide her for that breach of privacy at this point. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

“You’d better have a new stool with you,” she said, as he backed hastily out the door, only now aware that she was still clutching the much-abused doll’s head. She looked at it as soon as he was out of sight. Whatever shape it had been in before this, it was ruined now. She disgustedly tossed it into the discard bucket beside her bench.

It wasn’t until she had a half dozen usable heads lined up on the bench in front of her, and had smashed the rejects, that she felt as if her temper was any cooler. Cleaning them was a dull but exacting task, precisely what she wanted at the moment. She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone until her foul mood was gone.

So when she felt the stirring of air behind her that meant the door had cracked open again, she was not at all amused.

I’m going to kill him.

She readied a mental bolt, designed to hit him as if she had shouted in his ear—when her preliminary Mindtouch told her something completely unexpected. This was not Skif—or Kerowyn, or anyone else she knew.

And she ducked instinctively as something shot past, overhead, and landed with a solid thunk point-first in the wall above the bench.

A hunting knife, ordinary and untraceable. It quivered as she stared up at it, momentarily stunned. Then her training took over before the other could react to the fact that he had missed.

She kicked the stool at him as she rolled under the bench and came up on the other side. He kicked it out of the way, slammed the door shut behind him, and dropped the bar; a few heartbeats later, the door shuddered as Gwena hit it with her hooves.

Now I wish this place wasn’t quite so sturdy—

The stranger turned with another knife in his hands. Gwena shrieked and renewed her attack on the door. He ignored the pounding and came straight for Elspeth. With her lesson so fresh in her mind, she flung the first thing that came to hand at him—the half-cleaned doll’s head. It didn’t do any damage, but it made a hollow popping sound which distracted him enough so that she could get clear of the bench, get to where he’d kicked the stool, and snatch it up. Using it as a combination of shield and lance, she rushed him, trying to pin him against the abused door with the legs.

But the battering the stool had taken had weakened the legs too much to hold; his single blow broke the legs from the seat and left her holding a useless piece of flat board. Or almost useless; she threw it at his head, forcing him to duck, and giving her a chance to grab something else as Gwena’s hooves hit the door again.

That “something else” proved to be one of her better pots, a lovely, graceful, two-handled vase. But she sacrificed it without a second thought, snatching it off the shelf and smashing it against the wall of the shed, leaving her with a razor-sharp shard. A knife-edge, with a handle to control it.

She took the initiative, as he started at the crash of shattering crockery, and threw herself at him.

He wasn’t expecting that either, and she caught him completely off guard. He tried to grapple with her, and she let him, sacrificing her own mobility for one chance to get in with that bit of pottery in her right hand.

He grabbed her, but it was too late to stop her. Before he realized what she meant to do with that bit of crockery, she slashed it across his throat, cutting it from ear to ear, as Gwena’s hooves hit the door and it shattered inward.

* * *

“Are you going to be all right?” Kerowyn asked, as she wiped Elspeth’s forehead with a cold, damp cloth. Elspeth finally finished retching and licked her lips, tasting salt and bile, before she nodded shakily.

“I think so,” she replied, closing her eyes and leaning back against the outer wall of the shed. The others had arrived to find her on her hands and knees in the grass, covered in blood—not her own—with Gwena standing over her protectively as she emptied her stomach into the bushes.

Her stomach still felt queasy, as if she might have another bout at any moment. No matter that she had seen death before—had even killed her share of the enemy in the last war with Hardorn—she’d taken down Lord Orthallen with her own two hands and one of Skif’s throwing knives.

That wasn’t close, not this close. I was dropping arrows into people from a distance. I threw a knife from across the room. Not like this, where he bled all over me and looked up at me and—

Her stomach heaved again, and she quelled the thoughts. “Who was he?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to get her mind on something else. “How did he find out where I was? And how did he get past the guards?”

“I don’t know the answers to your second and third questions,” Kero replied, as Elspeth closed her eyes and concentrated on the coolness against her forehead. “But I can tell you the answer to the first. There’s a spiderweb brand on his palm. He’s one of the followers of the Cold God. They hire themselves out as assassins, and they’re very expensive because they don’t care if they get caught. He was either providing a legacy for a family, or doing penance for some terrible sin. If you hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed himself.” Kero dropped the cloth and sat back on her heels, and Elspeth opened her eyes and gaped at the older Herald, her nausea forgotten.

“I’ve never heard of anything like that!” she exclaimed.

Kero nodded. “Not too many people have; the Cold One’s advocates come from farther south than anyone I know has been except Geyr. He’s the one who told me about them, after the last try at your mother, and told me what to look for. Said that if Ancar really got desperate and knew how to contact them, he might try hiring one of the Cold Blades.” She frowned. “I didn’t take the threat seriously, and I should have—and believe me, it won’t happen again. Frankly, you were lucky—they usually aren’t that careless. And there is nothing, nothing, more dangerous than a suicidal fanatic.”

“But—how did he get in here, in the gardens?” she asked, bewildered. “How could he? We have guards everywhere!”

Kero frowned even harder, “If Geyr’s to be believed, by m-m-m-m-magic,” she said, forcing the word out around the compulsion that seemed to overtake all Heralds when discussing anything but the mental Gifts and the Truth-Spell. “There’re m-mages among the Cold Ones that give them a kind of invisibility. My grandmother could do it—make people think that when they looked at her, they were actually seeing someone they knew and trusted and expected to be there. Works with the mind, like Mindspeech, but it’s set up with a spell. Dangerous stuff—and now the guards are going to have to double-check everyone they think they know. There’re going to be some unhappy folks, unless I miss my guess…”

He either underestimated me, or he was inexperienced, she thought soberly, as Kero left her to talk quietly with some of the Guard who were dealing with the body. And—I don’t think we’re ever going to find out how Ancar found him because I have the funny feeling that he used magic.

She shivered and stood up, her knees shaking. Her Whites were ruined—not that she’d ever want to wear this set again. Magic again. Whatever had protected Valdemar in the past, it was not proof against Ancar anymore.

2

DARKWIND

Darkwind k’Sheyna balanced his bondbird Vree on his shoulder, and peered out across the sea of grass below him with a touch of—regret? Envy? A little of both, perhaps. From where he stood, the earth dropped in a steep cliff more than a hundred man-lengths to the floor of the Dhorisha Plains—a formidable barrier to those who meant the Shin’a’in and their land any ill. It took knowledge and skill to find the paths down into the Plains, and from there, intruders were visible above the waist-high grass for furlongs.

His bondbird lifted narrow, pointed wings a little in the warm, grass-scented updraft that followed the cliff. :Prey,: Vree’s thought answered his own, framed in the simple terms of the bondbird’s understanding. Not so much a thought as a flood of images; tree-hares, mice, quail, rabbits, all of them from the viewpoint of the forestgyre as they would appear just before the talons struck.

Prey, indeed. Any would-be hunter attempting to penetrate the Plains without magic aid would find himself quickly turned hunted. The land itself would fight him; he would be visible to even a child, he would never guess the locations of seeps and springs, and without landmarks that he would understand, that intruder would become disoriented in the expanse of grass and gently rolling hills. The guardians of the Plains, and the scouts that patrolled the border, had half their work done for them by the Plains themselves.

Darkwind sighed and turned away, back to his own cool, silent forest. No such help for him—other than the fact that the eastern edge of k’Sheyna territory bordered the Plains. But to the south and west lay forest, league upon league of it, and all of it dangerous.

:Sick,: complained Vree. Darkwind agreed with him. Magic contaminated those lands, a place Outlanders called the “Pelagir Hills” with no notion of just how much territory fell under that description. Magic flowed wild and twisted through the earth, a magic that warped and shaped everything that grew there—sometimes for the better, but more often for the worse.

Darkwind took Vree onto his wrist, the finger-long talons biting into the leather of his gauntlet as Vree steadied himself, and launched him into the trees to scout ahead. The forestgyre took to the air gladly; unlike his bondmate, Vree enjoyed the scouting forays. Hunting was no challenge to a bondbird, and there was only so much for Vree to do within the confines of k’Sheyna Vale’s safe territory. Scouting and guarding were what Vree had been bred for, and he was never happier than when flying ahead of Darkwind on patrol.

Darkwind didn’t mind the scouting so much, even if the k’Sheyna scouts were spread frighteningly thin—after all, he was a vayshe’druvon. Guard, scout, protector, he was all of those.

It’s the magic, he told himself—not for the first time. If it wasn’t for the magic—

Every time he encountered some threat to k’Sheyna that used magic or was born of it, and had to find some way other than magic to counter that threat, it scorched him to the soul. And worse was his father’s attitude when he returned—scorn for the mage who would abandon his power, and a stubborn refusal to understand why Darkwind had done so…

If I could go back in time and kill those fools that set this loose in the world, I would do so, and murder them all with my bare hands, he thought savagely. His anger at those long-dead ancestors remained, as he chose a tree to climb, looking for one he had not used before.

A massive goldenoak was his choice this time; he slipped hand-spikes out of his belt without conscious thought, and pulled the fingerless, backless leather gloves on over his palms. The tiny spikes set into the leather wouldn’t penetrate the bark of the tree enough to leave places for fungus or insects to lodge, but it would give him a little more traction on the trunk. As would the shakras-hide soles of his thin leather boots.

In moments he was up in the branches. The game-trail along the edge of the territory lay below him. When two-legged intruders penetrated k’Sheyna, most of the time they sought trails like this one.

When scouts patrolled, it was often up here, where the trails could be seen, but where the scouts themselves were invisible.

He shaded his eyes and chose a route through the next three forest giants by means of intersecting limbs, stowing his climbing-spikes and removing his double-ended climbing tool from the sheath on his back. Then he picked his way through the foliage, walking as surefootedly on the broad, swaying branch as if he were on the ground, pulling another branch closer with the hook end of his tool and hopping from his goldenoak to the limb of a massive candle-pine just as the branch began to bow beneath his weight. He followed the new branch in to the trunk, then back out again to another conifer, this time stowing the tool long enough to leap for the branch above him and swing himself up onto it.

As he chose his next route, his thoughts turned back to that wild magic, as they always did. What it has done to the land, to us, is unforgivable. What it could do is worse.

Never mind that the Tayledras tamed that magic, cleansed the places it had turned awry, made them safe for people and animals alike to live there. Not that there weren’t both there now—but they often found their offspring changed into something they did not recognize.

But that isn’t our real task. Our real task is more dangerous. And my father has forgotten it ever existed, in his obsessions with power and Power.

Darkwind looked back at the treeless sky where the Plains began. The Shin’a’in had no such problems. But then, the Shin’a’in had little to do with magic. Odd to think we were one, once.

Very odd, for all that there was no mistaking the fact that Tayledras features and Shin’a’in were mirrors of each other. The Kaled’a’in, they had been the most trusted allies of a mage whose name had been lost over the ages. The Tayledras remembered him only as “The Mage of Silence,” and if the Shin’a’in had recorded his true name in their knotted tapestries, they had never bothered to tell anyone in the Tayledras Clans.

Father forgets that the real duty of the Hawkbrothers is to heal the land of the scars caused by that war of magics, even as the Goddess has healed the Plains.

He often felt more kinship with his Shin’a’in “cousins” these days than he did with his real kin. The Lady gave them the more dangerous task, truth to tell, he admitted grudgingly. He looked back again, but this time he shuddered. The Hawkbrothers cleansed—but the Shin’a’in guarded. And what they guarded—

Somewhere out there, buried beneath grass and soil, are the weapons that caused all this. And not all of them require an Adept to use them.

Only the Shin’a’in stood guardian between those hidden weapons and the rest of the world.

I don’t envy them that duty.

:Men,: Vree sounded the alert, and followed it with a vocal alarm-call. Darkwind froze against the tree trunk for a moment, and touched Vree’s mind long enough to see through the bondbird’s eyes.

He clutched the trunk, fingernails digging into the bark. Direct contact with the forestgyre’s mind was always disorienting. His perspective was skewed—first at seeing the strangers from above, as they peered up through the branches in automatic response to Vree’s scream, the faces curiously flat and alien. Then came the dizzying spiral of Vree’s flight that made the faces below seem to spin. As always, the strangeness was what kept him aware that it was the forestgyre’s eyes he was using and not his own—the heightened sharpness of everything red, and the colors Vree saw that human eyes could not.

He was a passive traveler in Vree’s mind, not an active controller. It was a measure of the bond and Vree’s trust that the forestgyre would let him take control on occasion, but Darkwind took care never to abuse that trust. In general it was better just to observe—as he found yet again. Vree spotted one of the strangers raising what was probably a weapon, and kited up into the thick branches before Darkwind had registered more than the bare movement of an arm.

Darkwind released his link with Vree, and his hold on the trunk at the same time, running along the flat branch and using his tool as a balance-aid, and leaping to the next tree limb a heartbeat later. In his first days with Vree it had taken him a long time to recover from a link—

—and some never did, especially the first time. Caught up in the intoxication of the flight and the kill, they never detached themselves. And unless someone else discovered them, they could be lost forever that way—their bodies lying in a kind of coma, while their minds slowly merged with that of the bird, diminishing as they merged, until there was nothing left of what they were.

That had never happened in Darkwind’s lifetime by accident, although there had been one scout, when he was a child, who had a lightning-struck tree crush him beneath its trunk. He had been far from a Healer, and had deliberately merged himself with his bird, never to return to the crippled and dying wreck of his body. He remained with k’Sheyna within his bird’s mind, slowly fading, until at last the bird vanished one day, never to return.

Slower death, but death all the same, Darkwind thought pragmatically, climbing a pine trunk by hooking the stub of a broken branch above him to ascend to a crossover branch. He preferred to avoid such a nonchoice altogether.

He slowed as he neared the strangers, and dropped to all fours, stalking like a slim tree-cat along the branch and taking care not to rustle the leaves. Not that it would have mattered to the intruders, who called to each other and laughed as if they had no idea that they were being observed, or that they were in forbidden territory. His jaw tightened. They are about to find out differently. And they’re damned lucky that it’s me who found them. There are plenty of others—including Father—who would feather them with arrows or make ashes of them without waiting to find out if they’re ignorant, stupid, or true hostiles. Not that they’ll ever know enough to appreciate the difference, since I’m going to throw them out.

There were seven of them, however, and only one of him, and he had not survived this long as a scout by being incautious. First he called to Vree, for his Mindspeech was not strong enough to reach to the two nearest scouts.

:Call alert,: he said shortly. Vree knew what that meant. He’d contact the birds of the two scouts nearest, and they, in turn, would summon their bondmates. If Darkwind didn’t need their help, he would let them know through Vree, and they would turn back. But if he did need them, they were already on the way.

He followed the intruders for several furlongs as they blundered along the game trail, their clumsiness frightening all the creatures within a league of them into frozen silence, leaving behind them a visible trail in the scuffed vegetation, and an invisible one in the resinous tang of crushed pine needles and their own human scent. Two of the men bore no visible weapons; the rest were armed and armored.

Vree’s scorn, as sour and acidic as an unripe berry, tempted him to laughter. :Cubs,: the bird sent, unprompted, images of bumbling young bears and tangle-footed wolf pups.

Well, this was getting him nowhere. Nothing that the intruders had said or done gave him any idea of their intent. With a sigh, he decided that there was no choice in the matter. He was going to have to confront them.

Decision made, he worked his way up ahead of them, climbed down out of the branches, restored his climbing-tool to his back, limbered his bow, and waited for them to catch up to him.