Winds of Fury Read online

  That was too much; he blacked out for a moment, all of his senses overloaded, all of his channels struggling to contain the power that had flooded back into him.

  Finally, he took a breath. Another. His lungs still worked; he had not been burned to a cinder after all. He blinked, surprised that he could still see.

  And as his eyes focused again, he realized that he was no longer alone in his tower room.

  There was something—some kind of not-quite-human creature—collapsed at his feet. The portal was gone, and with it, the back and shelves of the empty bookcase.

  His first, fleeting thought was that it was a good thing that he had chosen an empty bookcase for his experiment. His second, that whatever it was he had created, it had not been the means to tap into the nodes that he had thought it would be.

  His third—that he had somehow brought this creature here. Was that why the manuscript had called the construct a portal? Was it a door to somewhere else, not the nodes? If it was, this creature he had somehow summoned through it was from a place stranger than he had ever seen or heard of. It was unconscious, but breathing. He turned it over, carefully, with his foot.

  It? No, indisputably “he, ” not “it. ”

  Whatever he was, this strange creature, he was in very bad condition; in the deep shock only handling too much mage-energy could produce, the shock that Ancar himself had only narrowly escaped just now. He was manlike, but had many attributes of a huge and powerful cat—a golden pelt, manelike hair, the teeth of a carnivore—and the more Ancar examined him, the more certain he became that those “attributes” had been created. This being had somehow been involved in changing his own shape, something that Ancar could not do, and had only seen Hulda do once. This was a more useful ability than a spell of illusion, which could be detected or broken.

  Wait a moment, and think. He might have been born this way, and not something changed by magic. Or he could even be a different race than mankind altogether. This could be the creature’s natural shape.

  That thought was a trifle disappointing, but if it was true, it still meant that the creature was from so far away that Ancar had never even picked up a hint of anything like it before. It had to be involved in magic to have gotten into that void between the Planes. And together, those two facts meant that it must know many things that were not in the magic traditions that Ancar had been using.

  And that meant things entirely outside Hulda’s scope of knowledge.

  Ancar smiled.

  He drew upon the energy of his imprisoned girls below, and gained the strength to rise and examine the creature sprawled across the wooden floor of his tower room.

  Carefully, warily, Ancar knelt beside him and touched him, extending his own battered probes to the mind and the potentials within that mind.

  Whatever shields the creature had once possessed were gone; all of his remaining energies were devoted to simply staying alive. That left him completely naked to Ancar’s probes, and what the King found as he explored the creature’s potentials startled him into a smothered shout of glee.

  The odd half-beast was an Adept! It was clear for anyone of Master rank to read, in the channels, in the strength of his Gift. And a powerful Adept as well . . . that much was evident from the signs all ever him that pointed to constant manipulations of mage-energy on a scale Ancar had only dreamed of.

  And with his shields gone, his mind open, he was entirely within Ancar’s power. Here it was, exactly what he had been longing for. The power of an Adept was what Ancar wanted; whether it was within himself or in another, it did not matter—as long as it was in his control.

  The beast stirred and opened his eyes. Slitted eyes, with rings of gold and green, blinking in a way that could not be counterfeited. The creature was dazed, disoriented, and so weak he could not even manage a coherent thought.

  Quickly, before the strange creature could do anything to orient itself, he flung the simplest controlling spell he could think of at it, sending it to sleep. Clumsy with excitement, he lurched to his feet and ran down the two staircases to the room at the base of the tower.

  There was no time for finesse, and no time to worry about subtlety. He unlocked the first cell with a touch of his finger, and dragged the shrinking, terrified girl huddled inside out into the light.

  She wore a collar and nothing else; a red collar. Good, she was still a virgin.

  He snapped a chain onto her collar, and hauled her up the staircase behind him.

  Ancar flung the knife aside, to lie beside the lifeless body of the girl he had brought up from below. He had been a little disappointed in the amount of power he had been able to drain from her before she died. He hoped it would be enough.

  He raised his hands and held them palm-down over the creature at his feet. The runes of coercion gleamed wetly on his golden pelt, drawn there in blood while the girl’s heart was still beating. This, at least, he had done many times.

  He recited the spell under his breath, and chuckled in satisfaction as the runes flared up brightly, then vanished, along with the girl’s body. He stepped back a pace or two, then settled himself in his chair again, without once taking his eyes off the body of his new acquisition.

  Once he was comfortable, he banished the spell that held the creature unconscious, and watched as the golden eyes flickered open again.

  This time there was sense in them; sense, and wariness. But no strength; the creature tried to rise and failed, tasted the strength of the coercive spells binding him, but did not even attempt to test them. Ancar had taken a small risk with one of his spells; he had substituted the glyph for “sound” for the one of “sight” in the only translation spell he knew. He hoped it would enable this strange creature to understand him, and be understood in return.

  “Who are you?” he asked carefully.

  The creature levered itself into a sitting position, but did not seem able to rise any farther. The man-beast stared at him for a long moment, while Ancar wondered if the spell had worked, or if he should repeat the question.

  Then he saw the flicker of sly defiance in the eyes.

  . . . or perhaps a little coercive pressure.

  He exerted his will, just a trifle, and had the satisfaction of seeing his captive wince. The sensuous mouth opened.

  “Falconsbane.” The voice was low, and Ancar had the feeling it could be pleasant, even seductive, if the owner chose. “Mornelithe . . . Falconsbane.”

  Oh, how pretentious. At least the creature understood him. “Where do you come from?”

  A very pink tongue licked the generous lips; Ancar stared in fascination. This Falconsbane had tremendous powers of recovery! He had gone from comatose to speech in a much shorter time than Ancar had expected, even with the magical assistance of the girl’s life-force. But the question seemed to confuse the creature.

  Well, of course it does, fool! If he does not know where he is, how can he know where he is from?

  “Never mind that,” Ancar amended. “What are you? Is that your natural form?”

  “I am . . . changed,” Falconsbane said slowly: “I have changed myself.” The words were dragged out of him by the coercion spells, and Ancar clutched the arms of his chair in glee. This had tremendous potential, oh yes, indeed.

  Ancar spent as much of the creature’s strength as he dared, extracting more information. Some of it he did not understand, although he expected to at some point, when he had time to question Falconsbane in detail. What was a “Hawkbrother,” for instance? And what was a “Heartstone?”

  But the initial information was enough. Falconsbane was an Adept; he understood the spell that Ancar had botched, although it was fortunate that he had botched it, and Ancar had no intention of revealing his inexperience. It was called a “Gate” and Falconsbane had somehow gotten caught in the backlash of a spell that had sent him into the void between Gates. Ancar had hauled him out of there, with his very wish for an Adept to come to his rescue! Falconsbane was not only an Adept, he was pro
bably more powerful and knowledgeable than Ancar had dared to imagine. He had enemies—the “Hawkbrothers” he had mentioned, and “others from his past.” He had a vast holding of his own, and Ancar guessed from descriptions that it was to the south and west of Rethwellan, out in the lands purportedly still despoiled by wild magic. He sometimes referred to himself as a “Changechild,” and had said things that made Ancar think that what Falconsbane had done with his own body he could do with others. That was an exciting possibility; it meant that Ancar could infiltrate spies anywhere, simply by substituting his own changed men for people in positions of trust.

  And Mornelithe Falconsbane was Ancar’s entirely. He was, however, not in very good condition. Even with Ancar’s sorcerous support, he had begun to waver during the last few questions. His strength was giving out, and he was still very disoriented. His answers had all come from memory; in order to have an effective servant, he would have to be able to think, and that would require a certain amount of physical recovery.

  I am going to have to get this creature back on his feet—and hide him from Hulda. If I am very, very lucky, she will have attributed the tremors in the fabric of mage-energy to her own passions. If I am not, I shall have to think of something else I could have done that would make the same ripples in the energies.

  He had no doubt that if Hulda got wind of Falconsbane’s existence—at least up until the Changechild was capable of defending himself—the creature would either vanish or end up in Hulda’s control. It was much easier to break coercion spells from outside than it was from within them, and Hulda was still stronger than Ancar.

  Now, where can I hide this little guest of mine?

  He left Falconsbane slumped in the middle of the floor, and hastened down his staircase to summon more of his hand-picked servants. More members of his personal guard; men Hulda never saw, who masqueraded as stable hands and acted as spies among the lowest servants. On his instructions, they brought with them robes and a litter, bundling Falconsbane into it and covering him as if he were sick or injured. Their eyes showed not even a flicker of curiosity at the strange creature. Ancar smiled in satisfaction.

  “Take him to the house of Lord Alistair,” Ancar told them. “Tell Lord Alistair that he is to take care of this man, and see to it that he receives the best possible care, under constant guard.” He pulled off his ring and handed it to the ranking officer. “Give him this; he will understand.”

  “Lord” Alistair was one of Ancar’s own mages, a man he had recruited himself, and on whom he had so many coercions he did not think that Alistair would even be able to use the guarderobe without permission.

  He’s not powerful enough for Hulda to worry about, not attractive enough for Hulda to care about, and I doubt she’s going to try to manipulate him. Even if she does, she’ll leave her mark on my coercions, and I will have ample time to move my little prize before she learns about him.

  The officer accepted the ring and slipped it into his belt-pouch with a bow. He waved to the others to begin the awkward task of taking the litter down the staircase as Ancar stepped back to give them room. But before they had gone more than a step, a voice emerged from the pile of robes on the litter.

  “Wait—”

  The men stopped, confused. Ancar moved closer to the side of the litter. A pair of feverishly bright eyes looked up at him from under the shadows of a hood.

  “Who—are you?”

  Ancar grinned, his spirits buoyed up by his new-found feelings of power. This was too great an opportunity to resist.

  “King Ancar of Hardorn,” he said, softly; then, with steel in his voice that showed he would not be trifled with, added, “But you will call me—‘Master.’ ”

  The bright eyes flashed in impotent anger, and Ancar laughed, waving to the litter bearers to be on their way. He had the upper hand here, and he was not going to give Falconsbane a chance to regain it.

  Chapter Two

  Herald Elspeth, Heir to the Kingdom of Valdemar, Adept-Mage-In-Training, Wingsister to Tayledras clan k’Sheyna, was in hot water up to her neck—again. She was immersed in a steaming pool, surrounded by Hawkbrother scouts and mages, and members of the legendary Kaled’a’in clan k’Leshya, not all of whom were human. . . .

  “This feels marvelous. I say it every day, but I’ll say it again: We don’t have anything like this back in Valdemar. Yet!” Elspeth smiled to her counterparts in the hot-spring grotto. “I got word from Gwena there were inventors in Haven working on a water heating system using the fires from forges. If they can make it work, I am definitely going to encourage them to make something like this.”

  Iceshadow k’Sheyna twisted a few strands of his waist-length, winter-white hair around his finger, and looked thoughtful. It was difficult to tell how old he was, despite the white hair; older than Elspeth, but that was about it. His smooth, sculptured face showed little sign of age, and only a few worry lines creased Iceshadow’s brow as a sign of past troubles. He stretched out his arms, popping his joints softly. “You’ll be taking many new ways of thinking back to your people. However,” he continued, “k’Sheyna will always be a home to you.”

  “Very true. And while I am proud to be a Wingsister . . . well, as much as I love the Vales, I would like to see my old familiar surroundings. I like to travel, but I’m not really nomadic. Even people I couldn’t stand back at the palace seem pleasant once I’ve been away from them for a while.” “I feel the same way about our Clan. Those few I disliked in person, I have come to feel affection for when away. Distance and time can do that. But I must admit,” he said to Elspeth, “that despite being thrilled at the thought of seeing the rest of k’Sheyna again, this whole Gating business makes me very nervous. Making a Gate, in the heart of this Vale. . . .”

  It wasn’t Elspeth who answered him. Firesong, who seemingly had not been paying attention to anyone but his black-haired companion Silverfox, grinned back over his shoulder at them. “Ah, there is no unstable Heartstone here, elder cousin. You have no reason to be nervous. Well, not because of Gates, anyway.”

  When Firesong smiled, it was difficult not to smile back. The supernally handsome Adept from the North could charm just about anyone or anything if he exerted himself, and Iceshadow was no exception to the power of that charm. “Only a node here, and another in the gryphons’ ruins. Nothing to fret over. There are more than enough mages here to keep the effects of a Gate Spell balanced, and prevent a spring storm from dropping down upon us.”

  The older Hawkbrother laughed shakily, returning Firesong’s grin. “It is difficult to convince my insides of this, youngling. We lived too long in the shadow of power we dared not trust. It can make anyone wary.”

  Firesong scowled a little but nodded. He, of all of them, knew best the chill of that shadow, for he had been the one most directly involved in confining it. Elspeth understood Iceshadow’s meaning only too easily herself. The little time she had spent in the presence of the rogue, unstable Heartstone of k’Sheyna Vale had been more than enough to convince her that Iceshadow’s fears would be hard to lay to rest.

  And yet, the real damage that power had done had all been beneath the surface. This Vale had looked to her—and still did—like a little corner of the Havens itself, the realm of the gods. She looked about her, at the luxuriant life of the heart of k’Sheyna, at the incredible beauty of the flowering bushes and vines everywhere, the fluted, sculptured rocks surrounding the hot-spring-fed pool—

  Then her senses took in the things that did not fit in a scene from a Valdemaran fantasy or Bardic play.

  The huge trees, each supporting as many as a dozen ekele, the Tayledras treehouses. The silver-haired mages and mottled-haired scouts taking their ease in the warm waters of the pool, their exotic birds in the branches above them. Hummingbirds drifting by and hovering. The Kaled’a’in, who were clearly some kin to the Tayledras, but of more diverse breeding, some with round faces, some with green or brown eyes instead of silver-blue, and here and there a blond or
a redhead. The swirl of silk and the hushed scrape and creak of well-worn leather amidst the calls of immense birds of prey.

  And last of all, the gryphons lounging about in the warm sun—gryphons gray and golden-brown, peregrine-patterned and cooperi-striped, purring or cooing, and talking with Hawkbrothers—

  She had a sudden feeling of disorientation, and shook her head. If, a year ago, anyone had told her that she would be soaking in a pool with a half dozen Hawkbrother mages, numbered as a Wingsister to a Hawkbrother Clan, and watching the antics of a score of legendary gryphons, she would have been certain that whoever asserted this had been severely intoxicated.

  If they had told her she would be instrumental in the overthrow of a marauding evil Adept, and have a Hawkbrother lover—while her fellow Herald Skif would have an even stranger lover, the half-feline Nyara, daughter of that Adept—and that this same Nyara, and not Elspeth, would be the holder of Elspeth’s sword Need—

  I would have carefully caught that person off-guard, tied him up, and put in an urgent call to the Mind Healers, that’s what I would have done.

  But MindHealing comes in many forms and experience is the best of them. Time had passed. She’d experienced all of that and more, and still the future was wide open.

  A blazingly white figure appeared at the far side of the pool, just at the edge of the spray from the tiny waterfall that cooled one end.

  And right on cue, a beam of sunlight penetrated the clouds and illuminated Elspeth’s Companion Gwena, framing her in a rainbow’s refracted light, making her look like a horse from the home of the gods, or a Companion-illustration in some book of tales.

  Several of the Hawkbrothers gazed appreciatively. “Good entrance,” Firesong laughed, approvingly. “I could not have managed better myself.” Silverfox chuckled, and continued to braid the man’s waist-length silver hair in an elaborate Kaled’a’in arrangement. Firesong spent most of his time with the Kaled’a’in, and surprisingly, not all of that was with the Kestra’chern Silverfox. Evidently, the Kaled’a’in had explored the usages of magic along much different lines than the Tayledras, and what he was learning from them both excited and fascinated Firesong. Among other things, they had learned how to build Vales without needing a Heartstone; old chronicles spoke of this, but the Tayledras had lost the knack. Elspeth was interested in learning this trick as well, since if it could be managed in Valdemar, it would be possible to create some very comfortable safe-havens in inhospitable territory for, say, Healer’s enclaves.