Winds of Fury (52 page)

: Damn it, you're all missing the point,:
Need said with irritation. :
Except Firesong, but I've been talking to him all morning. Here, let me
show
you.
:

Then, without even a “by your leave,” Skif found himself inside the thoughts of some
other
person entirely, just as Need had once flung him inside her own memories when she had first awakened, to explain what she was by showing him. But this was not Need's memory; this person was young, male, and seemed to be Shin'a'in—

:Halfbreed, :
Need interrupted. :
Trust me, it made a
difference
in how things came out.:

He watched, a silent observer, as the boy discovered his mage-powers, determined to run away to the Hawkbrothers, got lost in the Pelagiris Forest, tried to light a fire—

—and the entity that called itself Momelithe Falconsbane-in
this
lifetime—came flooding in to take his mind and body and make them his own.

Abruptly, Need flung Skif out of those memories, and he found himself back in the carnival tent, blinking, the others shaking their heads as they, too, recovered from the experience. “I wish you wouldn't do that without warning a man,” Skif complained, hitting the side of his head lightly with the heel of his hand. “It—”

:It saves time,:
Need replied testily.
Well, now you know. That's who my informant has been. :

“The boy?” Skif chewed his lip a little. “And presumably he still lives within Falconsbane's body. Forgive me, but I don't see how that changes anything.”

After a moment the sense of that penetrated, and Skif cursed softly. “You mean if we take him the way we had planned and kill him, we might be facing him
again
in a couple of years?”

:If he finds somebody else with his bloodline, yes. Or takes over Nyara's children. You see, he had another motive for trying out all his Changes on her, first. Mage-Gift will always breed true in her children now, and if and when she decides to have them, despite the lies her father
told her,
she'll be
very—ah—prolific.
Catlike
in
more than looks, it seems
.:

Skif froze in place, his body and mind chilled, as his eyes sought Nyara's. She nodded unhappily. “I could not fight him, Skif. Need could help me, but she cannot be everywhere, at all times, and what are we to do? Insist that our grown children stay with us all their lives?”

“We can't capture him—we can't kill him—what in the nine hells can we do with him?” Skif demanded, his voice rising. He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “What are we here for? Why don't we just give up? Why are we even trying?”

Firesong gave him a look that shut him up abruptly. “We can kill him, Skif,” the Healing Adept said calmly, his face an inhuman mask of serenity. “Need and I have been discussing this since you left. We can be rid of him, forever,
and
in a way that will allow An'desha to reclaim his body. But it will take four of us working together; you, Nyara, Need, and myself. Possibly even your Companion. It will take superb timing and equally superb cooperation. And it will not be silent.”

“By silent, you mean that it is going to take some very obvious magic?” Skif hazarded. This time it was Darkwind who nodded.

“That's why Elspeth, Vree, Gwena, and I will not be here. We will have to strike after Ancar takes the backlash of this magic or detects it in other ways, but before he has a chance to act on that knowledge. Since Falconsbane bears a great many of his coercion spells, slaying the Beast should snap them, and they will recoil on him like snapped bowstrings.” Darkwind rubbed one temple, then moved his hand up higher to scratch Vree. “More timing, you see. There will be a moment when he is very stunned, and that is when
we
must strike. Firesong will give us a signal when Falconsbane is gone. First we will take out Ancar. Then we will deal with Hulda.”

After all the time it had taken to get to this point, things seemed to be cascading much too fast, one plan running into the next like an avalanche. But so far as Skif was concerned there was still one question to be asked.

“If you can kill Falconsbane without killing the other fellow, wouldn't it be easier to kill him straight off and not worry about this boy?” There, it was out. He didn't like it, but how could seeing her father's body walking around do Nyara any good? And why complicate matters? It was very nice that this An'desha fellow had helped them, but sometimes you had to accept innocent casualties. . . .

The realist and the Herald warred within him, and the realist looked to be winning, but it was not making him feel anything other than soiled, old, and terribly cynical.

“We could, and it would be simpler,” Firesong admitted reluctantly. “But it is something I do not care for. On the other hand, one less complication might increase our chances for surviving this.” It looked to Skif as if he were facing his own internal struggle, and didn't care for the realities of the situation either.

Skif nodded; Elspeth looked uncomfortable and distressed, but nodded also, for she had learned long ago to accept that the expedient way might be the best way. But to Skif's surprise, it was Nyara who spoke up against the idea.

“Need has given me a sense of what An'desha has dwelt within, all these years,” she said slowly. “What Falconsbane did to me is nothing to what he has done to this boy. He has helped us at risk of real death—and he has done so knowing we might decide not to help him.
I
say it would reflect ill upon us all our days if we were to pretend he did not exist. I say we should save him if we can, and I put my life up for trying.”

She looked at Skif as if she were afraid he would think her to be crazed. He did—but it was the kind of “crazed” that he could admire. He crossed the tent and took her in his arms for a moment, then turned to the others.

“Nyara's right. It's stupid, it's suicidal, but Nyara's right and I was wrong.” He gulped, shaking all over, but feeling an odd relief as well. “We have to help this boy, if we can.”

:And that is why you were Chosen,:
Cymry said softly, into his mind.

“All right, Great Mage Pandemonium,” he said. “Then let's do this all or nothing. After all—” he grinned tautly as he remembered his old motto, the one he had told Talia so very long ago. “—if you're going to traverse thin ice, you might as well dance your way across!”

 

Night fell, and Falconsbane's preparations were all in place. They were in for another bout of wizard-weather, this time an unseasonable cold, and as far as he was concerned, that was all to the good. Bad weather would make it easier for him to disguise himself.

There was a very convincing simulacrum of himself in the bed, apparently sleeping, in case anyone came in while he was gone.

Ancar was in his war-room, a large chamber with a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the palace. Hulda, of course, was still in her cell, and showing no signs of breaking free. The other mages were all with Ancar, but the King did not trust Falconsbane enough to allow him access to the actual battle plans unless things had unraveled to the point that there was no choice.

The servants were mostly elsewhere. Rumors of what Falconsbane had done to the prisoners Ancar had given him insured that, except when he was known to be sleeping. There were two guards at his door, however. . . .

Falconsbane moved soundlessly to the doorway, and placed his hands at head-height on either side of the door-frame. This would be very tricky; he had very little mind-magic, so this would all be true spellcasting. Difficult, when one could not see one's target. . . .

He gathered his powers; closed his eyes, concentrating, building up the forces. And then, at the moment of greatest tension, let them fly, arrows of power from each hand that pierced the wall without a sound.

He opened his eyes. There was no noise, no hint of disturbance, on the other side of the door.

He reached for the voluminous cloak he'd had one of the servants bring him this morning and swirled it over his shoulders. It fell gracefully to his feet in heavy folds; he pulled the hood up over his head, using it to cover his face, so that nothing showed but his eyes. As cold as it was tonight, no one would think anything wrong, seeing a man muffled to the nose in a cloak. Likely, everyone else on the street would be doing the same thing and hoping that it would not rain.

He opened the door. The two guards still stood there, at rigid attention. Perhaps—a trifle too rigid?

Mornelithe chuckled and waved his hand in front of their glazed eyes. “Hello?” he said, softly, knowing there would be no response.

Nor was there. Ancar had not thought to armor the guards he had on Falconsbane against spell-casting, trusting in the coercions to keep Falconsbane from doing anything to them. But Mornelithe was not doing anything against Ancar's interests, no indeed. . . .

“Just going for a little walk, men,” Mornelithe whispered to the unresponsive guards in a moment of perverse whimsy. “I'll be back before you miss me, I promise!”

He closed the door carefully and set off down the hallway in a swirl of dark fabric. He was not worried about the servants seeing him; if they caught sight of him, they would never imagine the stranger was Falconsbane, and Mornelithe's authoritative stride was enough to make most of them think twice about challenging his presence in these halls. Ancar had a great many visitors who did not wish to be seen or challenged, and people who were foolhardy enough to do so often disappeared. In a few moments, the two men he had bespelled would wake from their daze, quite unaware that anything had happened to them. He would bespell them again on his return.

It was Ancar's other guards and soldiers Momelithe wished to avoid. He hoped there would be none of them to challenge him, but the best chance of avoiding them lay in getting outside quickly.

He could bespell more guards if he had to, but then he would have to find a way to dispose of them. They might be missed. That would be awkward, and not as much fun as he'd prefer.

He continued down the hall without meeting any more men in Ancar's uniform, but as he rounded a corner and drew within a few feet of his goal he heard the distinctive slap of military boots on the wooden floor. Four sets, at least.

He gambled; made a dash for the door leading to the staircase and wrenched it open. He slipped inside just before the guards came into view, and ran right into a young servingman, just as he closed the door and turned on the landing.

The boy opened his mouth. Falconsbane seized him by the throat before he even managed to squeak. There was no time for finesse; he simply choked the boy so that he could not make a sound. He then wrapped them both in silence, drained the servingboy of life-force, and left him on the landing.

Let whoever found him figure out how he had died.

The staircase led directly to the public corridors of the palace. Here he was even less likely to be challenged, and he opened the door at the bottom with confidence, striding out into the corridor and taking a certain enjoyment in the way people avoided looking at him directly. Anyone who walked in such a confident, unhurried manner in Ancar's palace must be powerful and dangerous . . . both attributes belonged to people that the folk here would rather avoid. Especially if the strangers took pains to hide their faces.

Unhindered, he passed out into the chill and darkness and paused for a moment on the landing above the courtyard. The guards at the doors did not even look at him; after all, they were there to keep people out, not in. He trotted quickly down the steps to the courtyard, casting a covert glance as he did so to the room behind the balcony immediately above the main doors. Lights were still burning brightly, and shadows were moving about inside. The war-council was still going strong.

Good. Let the children play.

There were more guards at the various gates he had to pass to get to the city itself, but once again, they were there to keep people out, not in, and they ignored him. On his return journey, he would come in through another way, via the gardens, and an ingenious series of gates with locks that could be picked with a pin or latches that could be lifted with a twig, holes under walls, and trees with overhanging limbs. This was the route that the servants used to slip in after a clandestine night in the town. Pity it only worked to get
in
by, but overhanging limbs that permitted a drop
down
were not very useful when the reverse was needed. He was a mage, not an acrobat.

He passed the last gate and a squad of very bored, very hardened soldiers who looked as if they would have welcomed an intruder just so that they could alleviate their boredom by killing him. Then he was out in streets of the city, and free.