Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Read online

  The warnings Quenten had given him had made him wary to the point of paranoia. Every time someone approached her, he kept examining them for some sign that they weren’t what they seemed, that they were really blood-path mages stalking her, like a cat stalking a baby rabbit.

  :She just doesn’t understand,: he confided to his Companion, thinking that she, at least, would sympathize. : There’re all those mages out there Quenten warned us about. She doesn’t even think about them, she doesn’t watch for them, and she’s not trying to hide from them.:

  :But you warned her about everything Quenten said,: Cymry said, answering his thought. You told her everything you knew. She may be right about hiding in plain sight, you know. Why would a mage look for someone like her to have Mage-Gift? Everyone knows mages can’t be fighters. Besides, don’t you think she’s as capable as you are of telling if someone is stalking her?:

  :Yes, but—:

  :In fact,: she continued, thoughtfully, :it’s entirely possible that she would know sooner than you. She does have mage abilities, even if they aren’t trained. Quenten said that power calls to power, and she’s keeping a watch on the thoughts of everyone around her. Don’t you think she’d know another mage if one came that close to her?:

  :Yes, but—: He lapsed into silence. Because that wasn’t all, or even most, of what was bothering him.

  She’d grown up, all right. She was no longer anything he could think of as a “girl.” And whether it was the new attitude, or the new clothing, or both—he couldn’t help noticing just how much she had grown up. Certainly the new clothing, far more flamboyant than anything she wore at home, enhanced that perception. It seemed almost as if she had taken on a new life with the new persona.

  Maybe it was also, at least in part, the fact that no one was watching them together. There was no one to start rumors, no one to warn him that she was not exactly an appropriate partner for an ex-thief; no one to wink and nod whenever he walked by with her, no one to ask, with arch significance, how she was doing lately. The friends had been as annoying as the opponents.

  But now both were gone, far out of distance of any gossip. And he was free to look at her as “Elspeth” instead of The Heir To The Throne.

  And he was discovering how much he liked what he saw. She was handsome in the same vibrant way Kero was—and, admit it, he thought to himself, you’re more than half in love with Kero. Clever, witty, with a ready laugh that more than made up for her whiplash temper. Oh, she was a handful, but a handful he wouldn’t mind having by his side....

  Dear gods. A sudden realization made him blush so hotly he was very glad that the fog was still thick enough to hide it. It wasn’t outraged sensibilities that made him yelp at the idea of her entertaining one of those mercs in bed—it was jealousy. The very last emotion he’d ever have anticipated entertaining, especially over Elspeth.

  He didn’t want her running off with someone else, he wanted her to run off with him.

  He must have been giving an ample demonstration of his jealousy over the past few days; surely she had guessed long before he had.

  But now that he thought about it, she didn’t seem to notice anything except his increasing protectiveness—“mother-henning,” she called it. This wasn’t the first time she’d complained about it.

  But it was the first time she had done so at the top of her lungs. She might not have noticed his attraction, but she had certainly noticed the side effects.

  I guess she’s really mad, he thought guiltily. And cleared his throat, hoping to restart the conversation, and get it turned back onto friendlier ground.

  She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t turn around and snap at him, either. The growing light of dawn filtered through the fog, enveloping them both in a glowing, pearly haze—and it was a good thing they were both wearing their barbaric merc outfits; the Companions just faded into the general glow, and if they’d been wearing Whites, they’d have lost each other in a heartbeat. This kind of mist fuddled directions and the apparent location of sound, too. He peered at her fog-enshrouded shape up ahead of him; it looked uncannily as if she was bestriding a wisp of fog itself.

  Try something noncommittal. Ask something harmless. “Did Quenten say why Adept Jendar is living in Lythecare, when the school he founded is all the way back up near Petras in Rethwellan?” he asked, trying to sound humble.

  “Don’t try to sound humble, Skif,” she replied waspishly. “It doesn’t suit you.” Then she relented and unbent a little; he thought perhaps she turned again to make certain he was still following, and hadn’t halted his Companion in a fit of pique. “Sorry. That wasn’t called for. Ah—he did tell me some. Jendar wants to be down here in Jkatha so he’s somewhere nearer his Shin‘a’in relatives, but he doesn’t want to be in Kata‘shin’a‘in, because it’s really just a trade-city, and it practically dries up and blows away in the fall and winter.”

  “What did he mean by that?” Skif asked, puzzled. “I should think a trade-city would have anything he’d want.”

  She paused. “Let me see if I can do a good imitation of Quenten imitating Jendar.”

  Her voice shifted to that of a powerful old man‘s, with none of the querulousness Skif expected.

  “ ‘I want fabulous food! Carpets! Hot bathhouses and decent shops! Beautiful women to make a fool of me in my old age! Servants to pamper me outrageously, and merchants to suck up to me when I’m in the mood to buy something!’ ”

  Skif chuckled; Elspeth did an excellent imitation when she was in a good mood—and from the sound of it, she had shaken her foul humor. I have the feeling I’m going to like Kero’s uncle as much as I do her.

  “I think I’m going to like the old man,” she said, echoing his thought. “Quenten also said that there were two reasons Jendar didn’t retire in Great Harsey, even though the school and the village begged him to. The first was that Great Harsey is a real backwater, too far for a man his age to travel to get to Petras, even if it is less than a day’s ride away. The other is that he said that if he stayed, the new head would never be a head, he’d always be ‘consulting’ with Jendar and never making any decisions for himself. He thought that would be a pretty stupid arrangement.” Her voice shifted again. “ ’Let the youngster make his own mistakes, the way I did. You certainly haven’t been hanging on my coattails, Quenten, and you’re doing just fine.‘ ”

  She paused again, and said, significantly, “Jendar obviously believes in letting people grow up. ”

  “I get the point,” Skif muttered. “I get the point.”

  It wasn’t far now to the turnoff, but Elspeth was beginning to wonder if she’d make it that far. And she wondered also what happened to a Herald who murdered his Companion.... Once in a while, she wished there was such a thing as repudiation by the Herald, and this was one of those times. The summer heat was bad down here; it was worse, without trees to give some shade. The Pelagiris Forest lay somewhere to their right, but there wasn’t a sign of it along this road way, except for the occasional faint, fugitive hint of pine.

  :Well, you’re certainly smug today,: Elspeth finally said to Gwena, when, for the fourth time, a sensation as of someone humming invaded the back of her mind. She pushed her hat up on her forehead and wiped away the sweat that kept trickling into her eyes.

  :What?: Gwena replied, her ears flicking backwards. : What on earth do you mean?:

  :You were humming to yourself,: Elspeth told her crossly. :If you were human, you’d have been whistling. Tunelessly, might I add. It’s damned annoying when someone is humming in your head; it’s not something a person can just ignore, you know.:

  :I’m just feeling very good,: Gwena replied defensively, picking up her pace a little, to the surprise of Cymry, who hurried to match her, hooves kicking up little clouds of dust. :Is there anything wrong with that? It’s a lovely summer day.:

  Oh, really? :A candlemark ago you were complaining about the heat.:

  : Well, maybe I’m getting used to it.: Gwena tossed
her head, her mane lashing Elspeth’s wrist, and added, :Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re just being testy.: Her mind-voice took on a conciliating tone. :Is it the wrong moon-time, dear?:

  :No it’s not, as you very well know. Besides, that has nothing to do with it!: Elspeth snapped, without thinking. :Skif is being a pain in the tail.:

  :Skif is falling in love with you,: Gwena replied, dropping the conciliating tone. : You could do worse.:

  :I know he is, and I couldn’t do worse,: she said, conscious only of her annoyance. :I’m not talking about differences in rank or background, either. And don’t you start playing matchmaker. He’s a very nice young man, and I’m not the least interested in him, all right?:

  :All right, all right,: Gwena said, sounding surprised at her vehemence. :Forget I said anything.:

  Gwena closed her mind to her Chosen, and Elspeth sighed. It wasn’t just Skif and his problem that was bothering her—or even primarily Skif. It was something else entirely.

  It was a feeling. One that had been increasing, every step she rode toward Lythecare. The feeling that she was being herded toward something, some destiny, like a complacent cow to the altar of sacrifice.

  As if she were doing what she “should” be doing.

  And she didn’t like it, not one tiny bit.

  Everything had fallen into place so very neatly; she could almost tally up the events on her fingers. First, Kero showed up, with a magic sword. Then, Elspeth, having seen real magic at work, firsthand, just happened to get the idea that Valdemar needed mages. Then, Kero just happened to back that up, having had to deal with mages herself in her career.

  All that could have been mere coincidence. But not the rest. Why was it that within a month, she was attacked by an assassin who may have been infiltrated into Haven magically, there was a magic attack on a major Border post—manned by Kero’s people, so an accurate report got back, and the Council, for some totally unknown reason, seemed to be forced into letting her go look for mages?

  And lo, as if in a book, Kero just happened to have kept up contact with her old mage, who happened to have kept up contact with his old teacher, who happened to be Kero’s uncle and doubly likely to cooperate. No one had stopped them on this trek, no one had even recognized them as far as Elspeth knew. Everyone was so helpful and friendly it was sickening. Even the mercs seemed to take her stories at face value. There was no sign of Ancar or his meddling. Everything was ticking along quietly, just like it was supposed to occur.

  They were barely a candlemark away from the turnoff for Lythecare. And the Companions were so smug about something she could taste it.

  Gwena was humming again.

  And suddenly she decided that she had had enough.

  That is it.

  She yanked so hard on her reins that Gwena tripped, went to her knees, and scrambled back up again with a mental yelp—and Cymry very nearly ran into her from behind.

  She turned to look at Skif; he stared stupidly back at her, as if wondering if she had gone mad.

  “That’s it,” she said. “That is it. I am not playing this game anymore.”

  “What?” Now Skif looked at her as if certain she had gone mad.

  “I am being herded to something, and I don’t like it,” she snapped, as much for Gwena’s ears as his. “I did want to do this, and Valdemar certainly needs mages, but I am not going to be guided by an invisible hand, as if I were a character in a badly-written book! This is not a foreordained Quest, I am not in a Prophecy, and I am not playing this game anymore.”

  With that, she dismounted and stalked off the side of the road to a rough clearing. Like seemingly all wayside clearings in this part of Jkatha, it was a bit of grass, surrounded by fenced fields of grain, with a couple of dusty, tall bushes, and a very small well. She sat down beside the well defiantly and crossed her arms.

  Skif dismounted, his expression not the puzzled one she had expected but something she couldn’t read. He walked slowly over to her, the Companions following with their reins trailing on the ground.

  “Well?” she said, staring up at him.

  He shrugged, but the conflicting emotions on his face convinced her that he knew something she didn’t.

  “I am not moving,” she said, firmly, suppressing the urge to cough as road dust went down her throat. “I am not moving, until you tell me what you know about what’s going on.”

  He looked helplessly from side to side; then his Companion whickered, and looked him in the eyes, nodding, as if to say, “You might as well tell her.”

  I thought so. She glared at Gwena, who flattened her ears. : You should have told me in the first place.:

  “It—was the Companions,” Skif said, faintly. “They, well, they sort of—ganged up on their Heralds, when you first wanted to go looking for mages. The Heralds that didn’t want to let you go, like your mother—well, they kind of got bullied.”

  “They what?” she exclaimed, and turned to Gwena, surprise warring with other emotions she couldn’t even name.

  :It had to be done,: Gwena replied firmly. :You had to go. It was important.:

  “That’s not all,” Skif said, looking particularly hang-dog. “For one thing, they absolutely forbid you to be told what they were doing. For another, they’re the ones that suggested Quenten in the first place. They said he was the only way to an important mage that they could trust.”

  “I knew it!” she said, fiercely. “I knew it, I knew it! I knew they were hock-deep in whatever was going on! I knew I was being herded like some stupid sheep!”

  She turned to Skif, ignoring the Companions. “Did they say anything about the Shin‘a’in?” she demanded. “If I’m going to do this, I am by damn going to do it my way.”

  “Well,” he said, slowly, “No. Not that I know of.”

  :We don’t know anything about the Shin‘a’in Goddess,: Gwena said, alarm evident in her mind-voice. :She’s not something Valdemar has ever dealt with. We’re not sure we trust Her.:

  “You can’t manipulate Her, you mean,” she replied flatly.

  :No. She could be like Iftel’s God; She could care only for the welfare of Her own people. That’s all. We know some of what She is and does—but it’s not something we want to stake the future of Valdemar on.: Gwena’s mind-voice rose with anxiety. Elspeth cut her off.

  “What do you have to say about this?” she asked Skif. “You, I mean. Not the Companions.”

  “I—uh—” he flushed, and looked horribly uncomfortable. “I—don’t know really what the Companions think of it.”

  He’s lying. His Companion is giving him an earful.

  “But I—uh, from everything Kero’s said, the Shin‘a’in probably could give you the teaching, and if they couldn‘t, they would know someone who could.” He gulped, and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Kero trusts them—not just her relatives, I mean—and so does her Companion, I know that much.”

  Gwena snorted. :Of course Sayvil says she trusts them. Contrary old beast, she’d say that just to be contrary.:

  Elspeth ignored the waspish comment. “Fine. ” She turned to stare into Gwena’s blue eyes. “I am going to Kata‘shin’a‘in, and I am going to see if the Shin’a‘in know someone to train me.” She turned the stare into a glare. “That is where I am going, and you are not going to stop me. I’ll walk if I have to. I’ll buy a plowhorse in the next village. But I am not going to Lythecare. And that is my final word on the subject.” She raised her chin and stared defiantly at all of them. “Now, are you with me, or do I go on alone?”

  Less than a candlemark later, they passed the turnoff to Lythecare, heading straight south, to Kata‘shin’a‘in.

  And Gwena was giving her the most uncomfortable ride of her life, in revenge.

  But every bruise was a badge of victory—

  And I hope I’ll still believe that in the morning when I can’t move....

  Chapter Twelve

  DARKWIND

  This patrol—like all the
others lately—had been completely uneventful. This is almost too easy, Darkwind thought, making frequent checks of the underbrush beside the path for signs of disturbance. A week now, that Nyara’s been hiding with us, and there’s nothing from the other side. Nothing hunting her, except that couple of wyrsa I caught on her trail, no magic probes, nothing.

  The very quietude set all his nerves on edge. Of course, her shielding is really outstanding. Falconsbane might not know she’s here, or even that she headed this way when she ran. He could be hunting for her in another direction altogether.

  That was what Treyvan said; Hydona was of the opinion that Falconsbane knew very well she’d come this way but assumed she was in the Vale. She pointed out that in all the time Falconsbane had been on their border—and everything Nyara said indicated that he had been there for a very long time—he’d never directly challenged k‘Sheyna. He was only one Adept, after all, and there were at least five Adepts and ten times that many Masters in k’Sheyna. And even though none of them were operating at full strength, the mages of k‘Sheyna could still be more than he cared to meet in conflict. Especially when the conflict was over the relatively minor matter of the loss of a single Changechild.

  “He can alwaysss make anotherrr,” Hydona had said, callously. “It isss unussual for one like himssself to keep a pet forrr longerrr than a few yearsss.”

  And oddly enough, Nyara agreed with Hydona’s analysis.

  “If he was angered at all, his anger would have been for a loss; not for the loss of me,” she’d said, more than a little piqued at having to admit that she was worth so little to her former master. “As an individual, I mean very little to him. He has threatened many times to create another, to then see how I fared among his lesser servants as their plaything. All that would goad him into action was that he had lost a possession. If something distracted him from that anger, he would have made only a token attempt to find me, more to appease his pride than to get me back.”