Winds of Change (55 page)

They were overtaken within moments. Gwena dove off the trail in time to avoid being trampled by Firesong’s white
dyheli,
who streaked past them, lightning-fast and surefooted. The stag bore Firesong clinging bareback, and behind them flew the firebird, streaming controlled false-sparks of agitation along the flowing length of its tail.

By the time Darkwind, Gwena, and Elspeth reached their goal, Firesong was lifting the body of Tre’valen in his arras as if it weighed nothing, his face utterly blank and expressionless. Firesong’s complexion had turned ashen; the firebird clutched at his shoulder and cluttered angrily, then fixed its eyes on Tre’valen’s lifeless face and went silent.

Firesong looked from Darkwind to Elspeth and back again, but said nothing. There was a chill in his eyes that made Darkwind reluctant to say anything. Elspeth stifled a sob behind her clenched fist; Gwena moved away, stepping backward very deliberately.

Firesong stalked carefully between them, eyes focused straight ahead. He carried his dreadful burden out of the clearing and into the depths of the Vale, without saying a single word to either of them.

Darkwind’s thoughts seethed with anger.
He killed Tre‘valen. He shielded the Stone and not my father, and Tre‘valen died for it. And he knows it, the arrogant bastard. Why? Why did he shield the damned Stone? He saw the strike coming before I did
-
he knew what was going to happen!

“Darkwind - your father,” Elspeth said urgently, recalling to him the
other
casualties in this catastrophe.

“Gods - ” he said, despairingly, and headed off at a run again, in the opposite direction that Firesong had taken. The
ekele
was not that far, but it seemed hundreds of leagues away as he hurtled through the foliage, taking a narrow shortcut. Branches whipped at his face, leaving places that stung until his eyes watered. His lungs ached, his legs felt as unsteady as willow twigs. But there was no time, no time -

Despite the fact that it seemed an eternity since the attack, he and Elspeth reached Starblade’s home moments ahead of the rest of the mages of k’Sheyna. Hyllarr was shrieking alarm and outrage to the entire Vale. Darkwind pounded up the steps of the
ekele
and burst into the main room, and stepped back, shocked by the destruction.

Starblade was sprawled inelegantly across the floor, with Kethra lying atop him in an attitude of protection. He was awake, if dazed; she was not moving. Elspeth pushed past him and reached for Kethra, levering her off the k’Sheyna Adept so that Darkwind could get to his father. She slipped and steadied, after a floorboard shifted under her. All the wood in the room was splintered; moisture covered every part that was not patched in frost. Very little was intact within four arm’s spans of Starblade and Kethra; the floor and walls were warped and cracked. This
ekele
could not possibly be livable again.

Hyllarr quieted as soon as they entered the room, though he continued to shift from one foot to the other, crooning anxiously and craning his neck to watch what they were doing. He came as far as the outer edge of the ice, then waited.

Starblade blinked up at his son, and tried to rise; Darkwind decided that it would be better to help him onto the couch than try to prevent him from moving. Starblade’s fingers showed signs of frostbite.

“Falconsbane,” Starblade murmured, bringing a trembling hand up to his eyes. “That touch again - filthy - ”

He shuddered, and Darkwind got him lying back against a heap of pillows, then ran to fetch water and cups from the far side of the
ekele.
One cup he handed to Elspeth, who had managed to get Kethra into a sitting position. The other he handed to his father, who seized it in shaking hands and drained it as if it contained the water of life itself. Darkwind daubed his fingers into the pitcher and traced wet fingers across his father’s brow and eyes and blew gently, an old mage’s technique to help focus concentration.

“What happened?” he asked, as Starblade closed his eyes and lay back again, the lines of pain in his face even more pronounced than ever before.

“I am not certain,” Starblade faltered. “It was Falconsbane - he tried my defenses.” His face mirrored his confusion and his fear, the fear that he had once again betrayed his Clan.

“It seems he could not break them,” Darkwind reminded him. “The beast
could not take you,
Father. His hold over you is gone forever - do you see?”

Starblade shook his head, though not in negation. “I - he attacked. Kethra tried to protect us both.” He propped himself up onto one elbow, with obvious effort, and looked around.

“She’s in shock,” Elspeth said calmly. “She needs a lot of rest, and she needs her energies restored. But I’m sure she’s going to be all right.”

By now, they had an audience, but only Iceshadow pushed through to join them. He went first to Kethra, then to Starblade, and seeing that they were only badly shaken and depleted, shook his head.

“It is strange,” Iceshadow said in puzzlement. “There was no time for
any
of us to have protected them. Yet someone did.”

“There were hawks,” Starblade whispered. “Two shining hawks with wings of fire. They dove from the sun, and sheltered us beneath their wings. That is what protected us.”

“That was Tre’valen,” said a new voice, flatly. Firesong stood just inside, keeping his face in shadow.

“That was Tre’valen, in spirit-form. And likely that one of k’Sheyna who was taken by the Shin’a’in Goddess.” He seemed to be waiting for the name, and Darkwind supplied it, carefully controlling his own anger at the Adept’s failure to shield his father.

“Dawnfire,” he said, his own voice as expressionless as Firesong’s.

Firesong did not even acknowledge that he had spoken “Dawnfire. It was also Dawnfire. That was shamanic magic; it would have been the only thing this Falconsbane could not counter, for it is spirit-born, and he knows not how to use it, nor how to negate it.” Firesong bent down for a moment, and laid his hand gently on Starblade’s head, above his closed eyes. Starblade did not seem to even notice that he was there, so deep was his exhaustion. “He must have known he could not survive such a blow in spirit-form.”

Darkwind kept a tight curb on his tongue, afraid to say
anything,
lest he lash out with words of challenge. But Firesong straightened, and looked into his eyes.

And the sheer agony Darkwind saw there killed whatever accusations had been forming in his mind. Firesong’s ageless, smooth face, which bore only confidence scant hours ago, now showed creases of tension and grief.

“I could not shield your father and the Stone, both, Darkwind,” Firesong said quietly, with unshed tears making his voice thick. “Tre’valen died because I was a fool. I did not think to look for your enemy; I did not ward the Stone against him. I had to make a choice; your father, or the Vale.”

“Look,” he said, and picked up a stoneware cup spider-webbed with cracks from the cold. “Look here, how this is like the Stone. All the damage runs from this place, tied to Starblade. And a single blow
here
- channeled through Starblade - you see?” He dropped the cup, which shattered between his feet.

Indeed, Darkwind did see. That one blow, had Firesong not intervened, would have shattered the Heartstone completely; releasing all the pent-up energies at once.

It would not have created as large a crater as made the Dhorisha Plains, but it would have dug down to bedrock, and killed every living thing within the Vale, and far outside it.

“I am - sorry,” Firesong said, and sighed heavily. “You will never know how sorry. I did what I had to. As did Tre’valen.”

And with that, he retreated, with the rest of k’Sheyna parting before him.

It was a fair amount of time later when Darkwind left the
ekele,
having put Starblade and Kethra under the care of Iceshadow and the other mages. Iceshadow was confident that they would both be near recovery by morning; Elspeth had volunteered to stay with them, channeling energies through Gwena to renew what they had lost, helping the k’Sheyna Healers. Vree had wanted to stay with Elspeth.

Darkwind could think of no way to be of use. His own strength was not what it should have been; he had cast much of it into that fruitless counterattack on Falconsbane. And his mind was in a turmoil. He did not know what to do, or to think. He would have been of no use to the Healers, muddled as he was.

So he wandered the Vale instead, coming at last to the curtain of energies that hid the entrance. Snow was falling again. The last daylight dwindled beneath the trees. He I reached the cleft in the hillside, and realized that the odd outcropping of snow there was not snow at all.

Firesong turned slowly, saw him, and nodded. It felt like an invitation. Darkwind stepped across the Veil and into the snow to stand beside him.

After a moment, Firesong spoke.

“He goes home now - ” the Adept said dully, “ - his body does.”

Darkwind saw that one of the shadows at the limit of vision was moving; was not a shadow at all, but a black-clad rider on a ghost-gray horse, with a large bundle carried across the saddlebow. Moving away; toward that path that led down to the Plains.

“And what of the spirit?” Darkwind asked, finally.

“I am not a shaman. I cannot say.”

Darkwind rubbed his arms as the residual heat of the Vale wisped away from his body into the silent snowfall.

“I want you to know, you did the right thing. In protecting the Heartstone. It would have killed us all.”

Firesong stiffened, and looked up; white crystal flakes settled on his forehead and brows, laced his eyelashes and crown of white hair. “Knowing it was the better of two ills changes little.” His hair rippled like silk in a breeze. “It makes Tre’valen’s death hurt no less.”

Darkwind nodded.

Firesong shifted his loose robes and lifted a long bone pipe to his lips. Thin, breathy notes fell softly upon the ear, mingled with the silence. Darkwind knew the tune, a Shin’a’in lament.

A second voice joined the flute’s, though Darkwind could not have told what it was until he saw the white firebird perched in the tree branches above the Adept, its head and neck stretched out, its graceful bill open and its throat vibrating.

The scene etched itself into Darkwind’s memory. After so many years in the company of Adepts, he knew the outward signs of self-induced trance; after a while, he realized that the Adept was paying no attention to anything but his music.

Darkwind turned and walked back into the Vale, leaving Firesong and his bondbird pouring out mournful notes into the dark and silence.

As he walked away, he thought he caught sight of something wet glittering on Firesong’s cheek, though the notes never faltered, and the face remained utterly remote and as lifeless as a marble statue’s. Perhaps it was only a melting snowflake.

Perhaps it wasn’t.

A scream rang out and was cut short.

Falconsbane slashed, all claws extended, and the hapless slave fell to the stone floor, choking on his own blood. Falconsbane watched him with anger raging unappeased through his veins, as the boy gurgled and clutched desperately at his throat. Blood poured between his fingers and splattered against the cold gray marble as the slave twitched and gasped and finally died, his eyes glazing, his body twitching, then relaxing into the limpness of death.

Not enough.
Falconsbane looked for something else to destroy, cast his eyes about the study, and found nothing that he could spare or did not need. He had already shattered the few breakable ornaments; the upholstery of his couch was slashed to ribbons. The table beside the couch was overturned, and he would not touch the books; they held knowledge too precious to waste.

So he turned back to his final victim, and proceeded to reduce the body to its fundamental parts, using only his hands.

When he was done, he was still full of burning rage. He kicked the door of the study open, hoping to find someone lurking in the hall, but they knew his temper by now, and had cleared out of the corridors. Likely they were all cowering behind locked doors and praying to whatever debased gods they worshiped - besides him - that he would appease his anger with the slave they had sent him. Cowards. He was surrounded by worthless, gutless cowards.

He growled deep in his chest.
Not as gutless as the slave is now.

He stormed out into the corridors of his fortress, and ran upward, toward the rooftops. The place stifled him with its heat and luxury. He wanted to destroy it all, but instead, he went seeking the darkness of the night and the quiet of the snow to cool his temper.

He found a spot where he would not be tempted to destroy anything more because there was nothing to destroy - the top of one of the four corner towers.

It was open to the wind and weather, and since the quiet and cold did nothing to cool his anger, Falconsbane found another outlet for his rage. He reached out to the storm about him and whipped it from a simple snowstorm to a blinding, howling blizzard, taking fierce comfort in the shrieking wind. Wishing that it was the shrieks of dying Hawkbrothers he heard instead.

Thwarted. Again! It could not have happened. He’d posted sentries to spy upon them. They had done nothing out of the ordinary. They made no efforts at all to
use
the twisted power of their Stone. Instead, they had sought to drain power from it, and it, of course, had resisted as it had been trained to do. Their mages were exhausted; they had no reserves, no Great Adepts.