Lady Warhawk (18 page)

"I met him! Grandfather sends him on spying missions." Lycen shook his head,
grinning. "There's so much I don't know. All the history they teach us seems so simple and
clear-cut. Encindi are evil, Noveni don't have magic, and Rey'kil control all the star-metal in the
World."

"It's best to start simply, but then as you gain knowledge and experience, you see
absolutes are only the central kernel of the reality. There are so many places where the
characteristics of our people are interwoven or overlap. I wonder sometimes how much more
peaceful our World would be right now, if we had acted as true brothers and sisters from the
beginning, instead of dividing into separate nations." Meghianna shook her head. "Enough
philosophy. Come, I have so much to show you and so very little time."

Lycen leaped to his feet. "Can we come back and explore more tomorrow night?"

"For as long as we're here," Meghianna promised. She sighed softly, only regretting a
little losing her private exploration. She had long years of solitude ahead of her, so she thanked
the Estall she could share her home with her son now, and that he was interested enough to ask
for stories. Someday soon, their duties would keep them apart.

That's the way of it for all mothers and sons,
she scolded herself.
Be
thankful he has been yours for this long.

* * * *

During the course of their ten days at the Stronghold, Lycen helped her rearrange the
layout of the rooms so everything necessary was on only three levels instead of spread among ten
levels and many long passageways to get from one to another--study room, library, healing
room, supplies, living quarters and the common room full of sunlight and birds and plants, all
clustered closer together, accessible by one spiraling staircase. Meghianna had no intention of
repopulating the Stronghold. Echoes of prophecies and visions warned her that it would be best if
the Stronghold sank even further into legend. The fewer people who knew it was a real place, the
less chance the enemy would think to look there for anything vital to the safety of the world.

It pleased her that Lycen was sensitive enough to see the Threads, and even activate
some of the simpler housekeeping spells. The library amazed him, though he grumbled when he
had to help her haul crate after crate of scrolls and tablets and other materials to the new library
room. Meghianna supposed it might have been easier to center the much-reduced Stronghold
around the library, but there were some things she wanted to stay where they were, such as the
common room and the intricate magics that made it a pocket of springtime deep within the
rock.

She gave Lycen the Stronghold's history and taught him about magic and prophecy and
the history of the World while they worked. He agreed with her decision to keep the Stronghold
forgotten and hidden, a safe place against future need. He grew solemn when she guided him
through the steps that would bind him even more closely to the magic of the Stronghold, so he
and those under his care could enter even if she was not there to open the door.

"But you'll always be here, won't you, Mother? Even when I'm old and dead and my
children and their children are fighting the battle, you'll be here, just like you are now." Lycen
stared into the glowing pile of roses that gave off warmth and light and a soft perfume, in place
of a fire in the center of the common room. Meghianna mourned the heavy burden of duty that
aged him, even as she felt the exhilaration of pride in her son's perception and wisdom.

"I have no idea what the Estall has planned for me, but yes, I think my duties will keep
me here, enduring when all I know has...gone on. And I'll thank you not to grow up any faster
than you have to." She was delighted when he grinned and the solemnity left his eyes.

"Who else can come in here?"

"Oh, all my ladies. Anyone who was born here. But there are fewer and fewer as the
years pass. Even enchanters aren't immortal. We aren't immune to disease or accidents or deathly
wounds. And we have a tendency to throw ourselves into the path of danger, to defend the
innocent. I don't know why the Noveni hate us so much. As long as they keep getting into
trouble, we'll keep defending them, and eventually, there won't be any more of us."

"I think we should let the Noveni have Moerta and we'll wrap magic around Lygroes
and tell the rest of the world to go away. And we can relax and have some peace and quiet.
Someday. Very far in the future." He grinned at her, making his words a joke.

Someday, Lygroes will indeed be sealed off from the rest of the world, and then
indeed there will be no more magic, and all the World outside will grieve in vain. But that time is
not now, and it will not be for a very long time to come. Not until I am long dead and gone, if I
can have my way,
she silently vowed.

"Can Lord Mrillis come here?" Lycen asked, breaking into her thoughts before they
grew too heavy.

"Oh yes, of course. The doors would open for him even if they were locked with twenty
spells. This is his home, more than any other place in the World."

"I'm glad. He'll be here to look after you when I'm not. I don't want you to be
alone."

"Don't you worry." Meghianna drew him close and kissed his forehead. "I will never be
alone. You are growing quite adept at touching the Threads, and someday you will be strong
enough to talk to me over long distances. Then we will always be together, no matter how far
apart we might be."

"And I'll be able to hear you and come to you when you need me."

And I will be able to hear you, and come when you need me. I will come and hold
you when you breathe your last.
She refused to say those words aloud. No boy of nearly
sixteen cared to hear that he would grow old and die. Her visions showed Lycen dying of old
age. That was more comfort than she could have imagined only a few years ago.

* * * *

On the tenth night, Meghianna went alone to the Stronghold. The boys had worn
themselves out with their explorations in the surrounding ravines, playing at mock battles,
chasing each other up and down steep, rocky slopes, splashing through streams, getting
gloriously muddy and scraped and bruised. They feasted in Lok's house that night, because he
was the commander of the losing 'army,' and they all slept there. As commander of the winners,
Lycen felt duty-bound to stay the entire night through with the others.

"After all, they might play some nasty trick in revenge, like wrapping Garyn and Athrar
up in their blankets and dumping them outside, or pouring water in their faces. I have to stay
there," he explained.

So Meghianna was alone when the Threads bound to the mouth of the ravine where their
soldier escorts had camped suddenly jangled with discord. She reached for those strands and the
taste and smell of blood filled her mouth and nose. Not just blood spilled in battle, but the rank,
rotten, burned sensation of blood magic at work.

Meghianna wrapped Threads around herself in a tight shield, weaving them as she
strode through the Stronghold, through the Mist Gates, across the lake and through the passage to
the village. The boys slept undisturbed for only a heartbeat longer before the ancient alarms
resonated in the stone pillars that guarded the five entrances into the canyon. Dark blue light
spilled from the pillars, gathering to form a dome overhead. Meghianna considered sealing the
door of Lok's house and casting the boys into slumber, then discarded that plan. They were to be
Valors someday, serving at the Warhawk's side. They loved bloody battles when it was limited to
play and stories--it was time for them to see the reality, and the cruelty of the enemy.

Athrar stumbled outside first, wrapping his cloak around himself with one hand while he
fumbled with the long knife at his belt. His star-metal ring glowed with red and orange
ripples.

"What does it mean?" he demanded, his voice harsh. He looked around the silent village,
as if he expected to see dozens of armed men tumble out of the empty houses with weapons
drawn, ready for battle.

"Blood magic, attacking our escort." Meghianna didn't wait for the reactions of the other
boys, who came out in time to hear her words, but strode to the passage that led to the ravine
where battle now raged.

Peripherally, she watched the boys reach with the star-metal they wore to touch the
magic bound into the village walls, just as she had taught them. The magic was old and thick
here around the village, reinforced through centuries by the hands of the war leaders and every
Queen of Snows who had come before her. Their experience and wisdom was available for any
who were strong enough, deft enough to seek and find and take it. Meghianna had only brushed
the surface of such skills in her lessons with the boys. It would have to be enough.

"First lesson--folding distances so we are not too late in time of need." She reached with
mental and physical hands and grasped the ends of Threads that connected to the ravine where
their escort fought. Meghianna yanked hard, throwing loops around all seven of them, and then
let go so the Threads jerked them forward, through rock and across what had taken them hours to
ride. It was not the most comfortable way to travel, but as Mrillis had taught her, some things
were more important than comfort. Meghianna braced herself and wrapped as much of her
imbrose
around the boys as she could, to buffer them. As it was, they would be dazed,
their stomachs in knots, when they arrived, and she would have to defend them as well as fight
the enemy. Coming to the aid of their escort was more important.

Lycen was the steadiest on his feet, reaching out to hold up Athrar and Arkin when they
emerged from the jangling loop of Thread. The other three boys went to their knees, retching.
Meghianna spared half a heartbeat to be sure that was all the damage they took, and turned to
face the battle already dying out.

Lightning flared from weapons clashing, and from the sky. Meghianna gasped as cold
rain lashed her face, and flung up more magic to shield her face so she could see. The weather
buffeting the landscape had a touch of inimical magic to it, enhancing the malevolence of a
fierce autumn storm.

Two figures battered at a lone man, illuminated by flashes of lightning. Meghianna let
her magic flare out, casting white light across the sodden, trampled camp, casting the figures in
harsh relief. The two turned, stared at her for two heartbeats, then ran. The man they battled
crumpled to his knees. Meghianna flung loops of Threads around the two, anchoring their
struggling bodies flat to the muddy, rocky ground.

Abruptly, the battle was over.

"Secure the perimeter," she ordered, not even looking over her shoulder at the boys.
Whether they were completely steady on their feet or not, they were warriors now. A few flashes
of
imbrose
assured her that at least four of them understood and obeyed her
immediately. That was good enough. She focused all her attention on the fallen man. At least he
was still moving. The other bodies she passed as she crossed the torn ground were far too quiet.
The air stung and reeked of blood and that peculiar, uneasy tang and buzz of
imbrose
paired with blood magic.

"Tyrin?" She shuddered once as the light that hovered over her shoulder revealed the
man, who struggled to stay upright on his knees and face her. Blood streaked his face, which was
cut and burned, the skin bubbled in places. Some of his chain mail was melted into the leather
beneath it, and his hands looked raw, only shreds of his mail and leather gauntlets
remaining.

"Lady." The warrior managed a grimace. "They didn't get past us."

"Thank you." She flung off her cloak and spread it out on the churned ground.
"Lycen!"

Her son was only a few steps away. He watched her, his face older and grave, as she
rattled off a long list of supplies to take from the healing room at the Stronghold.

"Did you see how I created the loop, to bring us here?"

"Yes, Mother." He gave her a grim smile, raised his hand, and plucked the loop from the
air. It flared blue and gold, wrapped around him, and an instant later he vanished.

"I'm sorry, Tyrin," she said, as she helped the injured man lie down on her cloak.

"For what, Lady?" he choked, a little blood appearing in the corner of his mouth.

"All those protective spells wrapped around this place. Twenty years ago, we would
have simply brought you into the Stronghold to heal you. Much easier on all of us."

"For you, Lady. My men--" he coughed again. "They'd die of terror rather than go
in."

"Too bad our enemies didn't die of terror just approaching my territory," she growled,
and glanced up once at the quiescent forms she had captured. Magic sparked green and yellow,
with spots of bloody black-red as enemy magic tried to break through the spell she had bound
around the two men. Her prisoners were unconscious--which meant the magic at work belonged
to their master, not to the men themselves.

"How is the boy--" Tyrin rolled onto his side, arms wrapped around his ribs. "Get
inside?" he finished on a sigh.

Meghianna rested her hands on his head and hip, looking into his body with her
imbrose
, reading the damage. She breathed a sigh of relief to find it all purely
physical--burns and blows and cuts--nothing enhanced with magic, such as poison injected into his bones.
He had broken ribs and likely felt as if his muscles had been pounded to mush, but he would
recover.

"He is my son. Of course he is able to enter the Stronghold."

Lycen returned moments later with the supplies, his face white with the strain, his mouth
a hard line of determination. He stayed with Meghianna until she assured him she could take care
of Tyrin alone, then joined the other boys in cleaning up the aftermath of the battle. She was
peripherally aware of the boys stopping from time to time to look at their captured enemies. It
amused her in a wry, distant way, to note the boys stayed a good five steps away from the knot of
sparkling Threads that held the prisoners fast.