Valdemar 09 - [Mage Winds 01] - Winds of Fate Page 8

“I am suggesting nothing,” Starblade replied smoothly. “I am only saying that the appearance is there.”

  A hundred retorts went through Darkwind’s mind, but he made none of them. Instead, he strove for and regained at least an appearance of calm.

  “If that were, indeed, the case, Elder,” he said quietly, but with just a hint of the rage that he held tightly bottled within, “it seems to me that I would already have been acting on those ambitions. I should have been moving to consolidate that power, and to manipulate both the non-mages and the weaker mages. As you are well aware, I have been doing no such thing. I have simply been doing the work assigned to me—like any other scout. Like any responsible leader. I never sought the position of leader or Elder, it was pressed upon me; I would never have used personal attraction to get them.”

  Starblade smiled, tightly. “I merely suggest, Darkwind, that if you returned to magic you would be forced to give up that position. In fact, in light of the fact that you are out of practice, you might be asked to return to the position of student rather than Adept. And that perhaps—unconsciously—you are reluctant to return to the position of commanded, having been commander.”

  “You have hinted that before, Elder,” Darkwind answered him grimly. “And the suggestion was just as repellent the first time as it is now. I think I know myself very well now, and there is no such reluctance on my part for that ridiculous reason. If there were anyone else within the scouts who wanted the position, I would give it to him—or her—and gladly.”

  And if we were a less civilized people, those words would be cause for a challenge.

  “I have said that I do not know this thing you have become, Darkwind—” Starblade began.

  Darkwind cut him off abruptly with an angry gesture. “Indeed, Elder,” he replied, turning on his heel and tossing his last words over his shoulder as he left the outer room of Starblade’s ekele. “You do not know me at all, if you think that little of me.”

  It was not—quite—the kind of exit he would have liked. There was no door to slam, only a hertasi-made curtain of strung seeds—and it was difficult, if not impossible, to effectively stamp his feet the few steps it took to reach the ladder, without sounding like a child in a temper.

  Which is how he wants me to feel, after all.

  And if he rushed angrily down the ladder, even so short a distance as he needed with his father’s tree-dwelling, he risked taking some stupid injury like a sprain or a broken limb. Starblade’s ekele was hardly more than a few man-heights from the floor of the Vale, and had several rooms, like a bracelet of beads around the trunk of the huge tree it was built onto. The access leading to it was more like a steep staircase than a ladder.

  So it was quite impossible to descend in any way that would underscore his mood without playing to his father’s gloating.

  He settled for vaulting off of the last few feet of it, as if he could not bear to endure Starblade’s “hospitality” a moment more. He landed as lightly and silently as only a woods-scout could, and walked away from the ekele without looking back, his purposeful steps taking him on a path that would lead him out of the Vale altogether.

  He knew that he was by no means as calm as he looked, but he was succeeding in this much at least. He was working off some of his anger as he pushed his way through the exotic, semitropical undergrowth that shadowed and sometimes hid the path. The plants themselves were typical of any Tayledras Vale, but the state of rank overgrowth was not.

  The Hawkbrothers always chose some kind of valley for their Clansites, something that could be “roofed over” magically, and shielded from above and on all sides, so that the climate within could be controlled, and undesirable creatures warded off. Then, if there were no hot springs there already, the mages would create them—and force-grow broad trees to make them large enough to hold several ekele.

  The result was always junglelike, and the careful placement of paths to allow for the maximum amount of cover and privacy for all the inhabitants gave a Vale the feeling of being uninhabited even when crowded with a full Clan and all the hertasi that served them.

  It appeared uninhabited to the outsider. To a Tayledras, there was always the undercurrent of little sounds and life-feelings that told him where everyone was, a comforting life-song that bound the Clan together.

  But there was no such song here, in k‘Sheyna Vale. Instead of a rich harmony, with under-melodies and counterpoint, the music halted, limped, within a broken consort. Hertasi made up most of the life-sparks about Darkwind, as the little lizard-folk went about their business and that of the Clan, cleaning and mending and preparing food. And that was not right.

  Further, there were no child-feelings anywhere about. Only adults, and a mere handful of those, compared to the number a full Clan should muster.

  Any Tayledras would know there is something wrong, something out of balance, just by entering the Vale.

  Silence; Tayledras that were not mages undertook all the skilled jobs that hertasi could not manage—besides the scouts, there should have been artisans, musicians, crafters. All those activities made their own little undercurrent of noises, and that, too, was absent. The rustle of leaves, the dripping of water, the whisper of the passing of the shy hertasi, sounds that he would never have noticed seemed too loud in the empty Vale.

  Then there were the little signs of neglect; ekele empty and untenanted, going to pieces, so that hertasi were constantly removing debris, and trying to get rid of things before they fell. Springs were littered with fallen leaves. Vegetation grew unchecked, untrimmed, or dying out as rare plants that had required careful nurturing went untended.

  It all contributed to the general feeling of desolation— but there was an underlying sense of pain, as well. And that was because not all of the ekele stood empty by choice.

  Half the Clan had moved to the new Vale, it was true, and were now out of reach until a new Gate could be built to them. There were no mages strong enough in the far-away, exiled half of the Clan to build that Gate, and not even the most desperate would choose to take children and frail elders on a trek across the dangerous territory that lay between them. But k’ Sheyna-that-remained was at a quarter of its strength, not a half. And most of those were not Adepts. The circle of Adepts that had been charged with draining and moving the Heartstone had been the strongest the Clan could muster; they had taken the full force of the disaster.

  Fully half of those that had remained behind—most of the Adepts—had died in the catastrophe that claimed Darkwind’s mother. Many of those that were left were still in something of a state of shock, and, like Darkwind himself, trying to cope with the unprecedented loss of so many mates, friends, and children. The silence left by their absence gnawed at the subconscious of mage and scout alike.

  Only a few went to Darkwind’s extreme, and changed their use-name, but he was not completely alone in his reaction. To change a use-name meant that, for all intents and purposes, the “person” described by that name was “dead.”

  That was why “Songwind” became “Darkwind.” When he had recovered from his burns and lacerations, he repudiated magic altogether. Then, when that move brought him into conflict with his father, he moved out of the family ekele, and took up life on his own, with the scouts and craftsmen who were left.

  Another mage, Starfire, became Nightfire, and became obsessed with the remains of the Heartstone, studying it every waking moment, trying to determine the cause of the disaster.

  And the most traumatized mage of all, Moonwing, became Silence.

  I could have been like Silence, he thought, beating a branch aside with unnecessary force. I could have retreated into myself, and become a hermit. I could have stopped speaking except mind-to-mind. I could be broadcasting my pain to anyone who dared touch my thoughts. I didn’t do that; I’m doing something useful.

  But that, evidently, was not enough for Starblade. He’ll have me as a mage, or not at all. Darkwind scowled at the trail before him, frightening a passing
hertasi into taking another route. He should look to the Clan; there are more important problems than the fact that I will not use magic.

  The physical wounds had mended, but the emotional and mental injuries were still with k‘Sheyna, and they were not healing well.

  But then, those that could have taken care of such deep-seated problems had all perished themselves.

  There was no one skilled enough, for instance, to enter Silence’s mind and Heal her—

  Heal Silence? There’s no one even skilled enough to Heal me....

  There should have been help coming from other Clans—

  There can only be only one reason why there isn‘t, he thought, and not for the first time. The Elders’ pride. They will not admit that we failed so badly, or that we need help at all.

  Fools. Fools and blind.

  In the first few weeks after the disaster, there had been messengers from other Clans. That much he knew for a fact; the rest was a guess, for he had been delirious from brain-fever and the pain of his burns. He had been in no position to make any pleas, but the visitors did not stay long, in any case. He had no doubt that they had been rebuffed. Now no visitors—or offers of help—came at all.

  Darkwind reached the edge of the Vale, where the shield met the outside world. The boundary line was quite clear; within the Vale grew a riot of flowers and plants with enormous, tropical leaves, all of it surrounding individual trees that reached higher than the cliffs beside them, trees with trunks as large as houses. Flowers bloomed and plants flourished no matter the season. Outside the Vale—one scant finger-length from the shield—it was pine forest, with the usual sparse undergrowth. And if Darkwind looked closely enough, he could see a kind of shimmer where the one ended and the other began.

  Of course, if he cared to use Mage-Sight on that barrier—which he did not—that shimmer was a curtain of pure energy, tuned only to allow wildlife, the Hawkbrothers, their allies, and select individuals across.

  He paused before crossing that invisible border, and looked reluctantly at a stand of enormous bandar-plants. Behind those plants lay a hot spring, one of many that supplied the heat and moisture the plants required ... and provided places of refreshment as well.

  Gods above, I could use a soak ... it’s been a long day, and there is still more ahead of me.

  Well, perhaps a short pause would not hurt anything.

  He slipped between two of the plants and shed his clothing quickly, leaving it in a pile on the smooth stones bordering the spring.

  This was not one of the larger springs, nor one of the more popular. It was too close to the edge of the Vale and the shield, and the reminder of the Real World outside their little sheltered Vale made many of the remaining mages too uneasy to use it.

  While the scouts, who were more than a little uneasy within the heart of the Vale, in close proximity to the shattered, but still empowered and dangerous Heartstone, did not much care to use the larger, carefully sculptured springs there, with their pools for washing as well as pools for soaking away aches—or disporting.

  Hertasi did their best to keep all the little pockets of hot, bubbling water free of fallen leaves and other debris, but they had too many other duties to attend to. This particular spring had not been attended to in some time and ran sluggishly, the surface covered with fallen vegetation. Darkwind tossed a half dozen huge leaves out to the side, and scooped out quite a bit of debris at the bottom before the spring bubbled up freely again.

  Then he relaxed back into the smooth stone of the seats built into the sides, created by magically sculpting the rock before the water had been called here.

  As the warm water soaked away his aches and bruises and relaxed too-taut muscles, he closed his eyes and, for once, tried to remember back to those dark and chaotic days immediately following the catastrophe.

  Did we know then how bad the area was outside our own borders? He didn’t think so; it seemed to him that no one had paid any attention to the lands outside the purview of the Clan, and to be fair, they had their hands full with the territory they had undertaken to cleanse.

  We definitely had enough to do—and whatever was out there tended to leave us alone while we were strong. There was no reason to think that it was any worse than our own lands.

  It was only after they had cleaned up their own areas, and were preparing to move, that they realized that the blight they faced on their southern border was at least as pervasive as the one they had just dealt with. And was, perhaps, more dangerous than the area to the west that they had chosen as the new Vale-site.

  Why hadn’t they seen the blight? Well, it might have been because there had been a clear zone between the two, a zone that disguised the true nature of what lay beyond. It was only after the disaster, when creatures from across that clear zone swarmed over the wreckage of the Vale, that anyone realized just how tainted that area was.

  Now, of course, they could not deal with it, could not clean it out, and could not eliminate it.

  There’s at least one Adept in there, Darkwind thought, clenching his jaw involuntarily. It was his constant “attentions” after the accident that forced us to pull back our borders in the first place.

  And now that there were no more offers of help from the other Clans, they could not ask for one of the others to lend aid. They could not even push the unseen enemies back, not without help.

  I’d try to contact the other Clans myself, but I would have to do so by magic means. I don’t know where the other territories are, and Father isn’t about to give me a map.

  And using magic would only have attracted more unwelcome attentions. He had seen all too often how blatant use of magics brought a wave of attackers from the Outside. The one mage who had been willing to work with the scouts had fallen victim, he suspected, to just that.

  He was certainly overwhelmed before we could reach him. And I know there were not that many Misborn there before.

  He suspected that the Adept watched for magic-use, and turned his creatures loose when he saw it. So long as k‘Sheyna confined themselves and their magic to their Vale, he seemed content to pursue his own plans, only pressing them occasionally, rather than sending an army against them.

  There may be more than one Adept out there, but somehow I don’t think so. Dark Adepts don’t share power willingly.

  So far, they had been able to beat all attempts to penetrate the new boundaries. So far, they had not lost more than a handful of scouts, and a mage or two.

  And right now, we seem to be operating under an uneasy truce, as if he had decided we were too weak to threaten him, but too strong to be worth moving against. At least nothing major has come out of there for about a year. And there haven’t been any attacks from Outlanders that I can prove originated from there.

  Nothing had made any attempt at the creatures k‘Sheyna protected, either. So far the hertasi enclaves remained untouched, the dyheli herds had not been preyed upon. The firebirds had fled the area though—and that bothered him.

  And there were no human villages within k‘Sheyna territory anymore. Crops had failed, wells dried up, traders ceased to come; only a handful of hunters and a religious hermit or two stayed behind.

  No overt attacks for a year. But who knows what that means, he thought pessimistically. We have a weak and unstable Clan facing a nebulous enemy, and our options grow fewer with every passing day.

  Starblade’s answer to their troubles was simple: more magic. More mages. Everyone who had a spark of Mage-Gift should train it, and use it in their defense, while the handful of real mages worked to find an answer to their unstable Heartstone. Magic was the answer to every problem.

  But how many times have I seen that using magic attracts problems? Hundreds. And what happens when we attract something we can’t handle?

  No, more magic was not the answer. Not to Darkwind’s way of thinking.

  What we should do is appeal for help to one of the other Clans; we need Adepts who can drain the old Heartstone or stabil
ize it and take over this Vale for us. Then we can build a Gate and rejoin the rest. So what if they can’t Gate in to us? That doesn’t matter; and while we wait for the Heartstone to be made safe, we can defend ourselves with stealth, with cleverness.

  He had to force his shoulder muscles to relax again, and sank a little deeper into the hot water. In fact, that’s what we should be doing about this Adept. We should find some way of luring him out into the open, maybe by “playing dead. ” Then we should neutralize him—but the one thing he wouldn’t be expecting is a physical assault.

  He nodded to himself, the pieces finally falling together for him. That Adept wants something—the power in the Heartstone, probably. He has to be watching constantly for magic power in use, and sending things against us only when he sees it. He really hasn’t made an all-out assault against us because he’s clever. He knows it would cost him less to take us by attrition than by full force.

  And right now, he’s hoping to lull us into forgetting that he’s out there.

  He tightened his jaw, thinking about how Starblade kept dismissing the importance of the scouts, and the threats on the borders. Right. He just might, too.

  That brought up another thought. I wonder if he sent those intruders to test us? It could be. And not using magic told him—what?

  That we don’t have mages to spare, probably. He should have a pretty good idea of how weak we really are at this point.

  But what if I can use that against him? What if I can lure him out into the open, and find out who and what he is?

  What if I could destroy him—or at least convince him that we’re too strong, still, to be worth the trial?

  He shook his head at his own ambitions. Certainly. And what if I could grow wings and fly out of here for help? The one is as likely as the other.

  Best to stick to what he knew he could accomplish.

  He looked up through the leafy canopy above him; not long until sunset, and that meant he had better get back to his own ekele. The day-scouts would be waiting to report, the night-scouts to be briefed. And Vree would be waiting for his dinner, for that bit of rabbit earlier was hardly enough to satisfy him.