Storm Rising (15 page)

He stopped for a moment, and probed deeply into some of the earliest memories of possession.
Oh … this is interesting. The first time, Ma’ar didn’t just rush in and take over, he
seduced!
He offered instant Adepthood, no tedious apprenticeship. My, my. It was only much, much later that he became impatient and careless, and just took over in a rush.

That initial welcome would have been all he needed to get himself well established; in the time it took them to realize what it was they had welcomed, he’d be entrenched. By then, of course, it was too late; Falconsbane would not tolerate a second soul, a second personality in “his” new body. By the time any of them thought to rebel, Falconsbane eradicated them and reigned supreme.

But I didn’t want him, and I didn’t particularly want power.
All I wanted was—people. Someone who wouldn’t
despise me, who
would welcome me and give me a chance to prove myself. Was that the difference that made it possible for me to survive?

It might have been. It was just such a tiny wedge that had made the difference in the past.

There were other reasons for his survival; he had “run,” hiding in his own mind, while Falconsbane settled
in, rather than trying to resist the intruder. Once in hiding, he had made no effort to try and force out the Dark Adept.

A chill wind whipped through his hair, and he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold. These gardens were good places to be alone, once bad weather had set in. Once the last of the wintering preparations had been made, not even the gardeners ventured out here.

It’s odd, but a great deal of what Falconsbane and all his other “selves” did were the darker applications of things that
could
have been very admirable. It’s as if they couldn’t create, they could only warp, twist, and mutilate.

That was especially true in the way that Falconsbane had manipulated people’s minds and hearts, including that of his own daughter Nyara. Falconsbane was capable of inspiring true devotion from his servants, as well as devotion inspired only by fear. In fact, if An’desha went all the way back to the source of the memories, the Adept called Ma’ar, he found that Ma’ar seldom, if ever, needed to command by fear. He could, and did, manage to convince his followers that he was everything they wanted him to be, and that he truly cared for their welfare. If Ma’ar’s memories were to be trusted, he had underlings who would gladly have flung themselves in front of an assassin’s blade for him out of pure worship.

Compared with that, Falconsbane’s sick and twisted love-hate-need relationship with his daughter Nyara was without sophistication, even crude.

I am glad that she and Skif were sent to be the envoys to the k’Leshya. Skif was growing restless with nothing to contribute, and she was not comfortable here. Neither was Need. I think she was afraid that one day Kerowyn would decide to make good on her threat to drop the sword down a well.
He smiled to himself; there could not be two such supremely self-assured—not to say “arrogant”—females in the same physical location as Kerowyn and the sword called Need, without conflicts arising. It was just as well that Skif,
Nyara, and Need were gone. The k’Leshya could use Skif’s knowledge, and the sword knew magics even older than their own. And Nyara, of course, would be much more comfortable in a place where she was by no means the oddest looking person in the Vale.

What Falconsbane had done to her and with her just on an emotional basis was sick and demented by any normal standards. But just as intimate knowledge of the way that the body worked could be used to heal, as well as to kill and torture, could not Falconsbane’s ability to manipulate minds and emotions be used for some other, benign purpose?

In some ways, wasn’t that precisely what Ulrich and Karal had been doing to help
him?

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Did that make Falconsbane something like—like an evil priest?

Certainly on one level. A good priest is supposed to counsel and guide his followers to their betterment, and Falconsbane used similar tools of persuasion.

Bells at the Collegium rang, signaling the beginning of the dinner hour. That meant that both the Palace and Collegium libraries would be empty, and both libraries had comfortable reading areas with fireplaces—certainly much better places for continuing these introspections than the gardens, at this point! It wouldn’t be long until dark, the gray light was fading into thick, gray-blue dusk, and the wind was getting colder with every passing moment. His nose and ears were getting numb, and the wind somehow managed to find every seam in his coat to blow through!

He turned his steps back toward the Palace, nodding at the guard at the garden door as he passed. One advantage of being who and what he was—he was instantly recognizable. Most guards let him by without a challenge, the way they let the Hawkbrothers and the gryphons pass.

The Palace library seemed the best choice; the reading area was smaller, and most of the people who used it were court functionaries. This was not a library filled with books of poetry, clever histories, and tales. The books here were dull chronicles for the most part, with
a leavening of books on language, law, and custom.
Meaty and informative, but as hard to digest as a stone and about as entertaining.
It was tucked away between the room used for Valdemaran Council sessions and the office of the Seneschal, sharing a fireplace wall with the latter.

Only one or two lamps had been lit, but there was a bright fire going in the fireplace—and as An’desha had hoped, there was no one in the reading area. He chose a comfortably padded chair, draped his coat over the back, and sprawled sideways with one leg over an arm of the chair, staring into the fire.

So if Ma’ar and all his other “selves” were able to control and persuade people
—would it be wrong to use that same power to help people? To get them to compromise with each other, for instance—would that be wrong? I wish I had some help with this … I have a feeling I’m getting out of my depth. The trouble was that he was too close to those memories; seeing such abilities and powers in action made it very tempting to assume that such things
could
be used for good purposes.

Someone once told me that even the deadliest of poisons could be used to heal—with expertise and great care, in the minutest of doses.
How tiny a dose of “persuasion” was moral? He didn’t know where the line should be drawn between “trying to help people,” and “manipulating people.”

Firesong would be no help at all, even though he was a Healing Adept.
His
powers were all concerned with the world of the material, not the world of the soul, heart, and spirit. He tended to get very impatient when An’desha strayed into the realms of what he considered to be “mystical.” For all of his insistence on the intuitive nature of magic, he was bound up in the practical and had little use for mysticism.

I’d like to ask Karal, but he’s already carrying so many burdens, I’m afraid to add one more to his load. It might be the one that breaks his back—or his spirit.
Poor Karal! He was carrying far too much responsibility on those slim shoulders.

Perhaps that sweet lady, Talia?
But—no, really, what he wanted wasn’t
comfort
, it was a place to start figuring out ethical solutions.

This was the one place where his old nemesis, the shaman of his Clan, might have been useful.
The old man was as rigid as dried rawhide, but he was enough in tune with the Star-Eyed that he never gave anyone
bad
spiritual advice that I ever heard of. And he knew his ethics….
The new Shin’a’in envoy was not a shaman; he was temporary, the brother of his Clan Chief, and An’desha really didn’t like him any more than Karal did. If only Querna were still alive! He wouldn’t have hesitated a moment in asking
her
help.

If only I had someone, anyone, to talk to! No, not “anyone.” A shaman, a priest. But I don’t know which priests here to trust except Karal; I’d rather talk to someone who comes from the same background as me. How ironic! I got myself into trouble by running away from the shaman, and now I would give anything to be able to talk to one.

The fire gave a sudden flare, and he jumped as a deep, purely mental chuckle washed warmth through his mind.

:You had only to ask, little brother,:
said a mind-voice he had thought never to hear again, as the Avatar of the Star-Eyed that he knew as Tre’valen appeared in the fire before him. The last time he had seen the Avatar had been when he was in Hardorn, and Falconsbane had control of his body. Although he was told that the Avatars appeared in Valdemar when they transformed him and Nyara from their feline Changechild forms to something more human, that was one appearance
he
did not remember. Mercifully, perhaps; the transformation had not been without a great deal of physical pain. Flesh was torn loose from its Adept-shaped form and resculpted, even the hairs of his body were altered in one massive rush of magical power. A gift from the Star-Eyed for his bravery, but no changes were without pain.

As Tre’valen had often before—though
never
in Valdemar—the Avatar took the form of a hearth-bound vorcel-hawk that fanned and mantled its wings of fire
amid the flames dancing in the fireplace.
:I am pleased that you have come this far, although the state of your heart is bringing
you
no peace at the moment. We have missed talking with you. I believe, little brother, that we can help you.:

Firesong paced the floor of the sitting room of the
ekele
, looking out from time to time at the bare, wind-tossed branches of the trees outside the window. His high-cheekboned face bent with a frown. An’desha had gone off on his own—again. The young Shin’a’in was spending less and less time in the
ekele
, a complete reversal of the times when Firesong had been unable to get him to go beyond the doors of the indoor garden on the ground floor.

He’s changed. He’s still changing.
Neither of those thoughts sat particularly well with him. He didn’t particularly like the direction of those changes, and he definitely did not know how to cope with them.

It had been so pleasant when An’desha was uncertain of himself, when he looked only to Firesong for answers and reassurance in a strange and frightening world. It had given Firesong such a delightful feeling to be
needed
so desperately…. No one had ever needed him like that before, although plenty of people had wanted him. That very dependence had been quite attractive.

On the down side, he had to admit it had occasionally been an annoying and even constrictive relationship, for he could not even joke and flirt with Darkwind without sending An’desha into hysterics.

But most of the time it had been very, very sweet.

His conscience said it had been more than just “sweet.”
Admit it. It gave you a great deal of pleasure to have that kind of power over someone. An’desha would willingly have been your slave, if you’d asked it of him.
He winced a little; his conscience was altogether too accurate.

In those days it had been as if An’desha was barely afloat after a shipwreck and did not know how to
swim, and absolutely depended on Firesong to get him to safety.

The room was exactly twelve long paces wide; ten, to avoid running into walls.
I was very content with that; with An’desha being passive, and putting all responsibility for his life into my hands.

Well, not
all
responsibility. Even then, An’desha had shown flashes of stubborn will, even though the application of that will was hardly productive. Firesong’s own conscience and memory reminded him of that, too.

Enough pacing!
Firesong flung himself sullenly onto a couch and lay there with his hair and one leg trailing over the side, staring up at the ceiling. It was getting dark, but he did not bother to light any of the lamps, although he could have done so with a thought. His firebird looked at him curiously from his superior elevation on his perch, but when Firesong didn’t show any interest in scratching him, the bondbird yawned and went back to preening himself. False sparks sparkled along the snow-white firebird’s feathers whenever Aya roused all his feathers and shook them, and in repose, in this uncertain half-light, the quills of each feather glowed softly. Aya seemingly hovered in the air, his perch invisible in the near-dark, a glowing ghost of feathered light.

Firesong had lost patience with An’desha many times over when the young man had refused to delve into the memories of past existences that Mornelithe Falconsbane had left behind. Even though it was obvious that crucial knowledge of the past lay there, he
still
had refused, out of the fear that such probing would somehow reawaken the dark Adept. This was one place where Firesong had failed him; it had been Master Ulrich and Karal who had convinced him that there was no danger of his becoming another Falconsbane, much to Firesong’s hidden annoyance.

On the other hand, being no priest, I had no personal experience of possession, so I had no way to convince him that I knew what I was talking about.
Perhaps that was when the separation started. It was certainly one more victory to Karal.

And there is the belief, as almost all people have, that keeping a memory of someone alive keeps that
person
alive. So how could An’desha
not
believe that speaking of Falconsbane would keep the evil Adept’s soul alive? Even when I reassured him repeatedly that I had shredded Mornelithe Falconsbane in my own spirit-talons? Yet another failure.

Oh, but there were more.
Firesong had also failed to convince An’desha to learn to
use
those magical powers he’d been born with, and the expertise in them that Falconsbane’s tenure in his body had granted him. Now
that
had been not just annoying, but it was
damned
frightening. As long as An’desha had refused to use and practice those powers, they were dangerous—because where will failed, instinct might take over.