Winds of Change (17 page)

“Yes.” Once again he was amazed at Wintermoon’s insight. Or was it something more? “Are you talking with Cymry?”

The other man nodded, and poked at the fire.

:I told him only a few things.:
Cymry didn’t sound at all apologetic.
:When you started talking to him and it looked like you were going to talk about That - I prompted him a little.:

:Why?:
He wasn’t angry, not really; Cymry was in and out of his thoughts so much she was part and parcel of him. She was his best and dearest friend; he loved her so deeply that he would sooner cut off his arm than lose her. And if he knew nothing else, he knew that she would never, ever do anything to harm him in any way. She had been a part of the revenge scheme, although she had not known his plan until he’d ambushed the bastard and begun. And even then, she kept silent after her initial protests. He didn’t think she’d even betrayed his secret shame to other Companions. So why reveal it now?

:Because I thought it sounded and felt like you were ready to speak, and he was ready to hear,:
she replied, matter-of-factly.
:And as much as being ready to speak, you were ready to listen. Was I wrong?:

He shook his head.
:No. No, you were right. Thank you, love.:

Wintermoon sat quietly through the silent exchange, and watched Skif and Cymry alternately. When the Companion nodded, he sighed, and smiled thinly. “I hope you are not angered with us,” he said, in half apology. “You see, I had a similar discussion after
my
ill-conceived vengeance, with Iceshadow. He is not a Mind-Healer, but he is closer to being one than he thinks. He has the insights, at least.”

The Hawkbrother fixed him with a penetrating stare. “I will tell you this, out of my own experience. Although you feel relief now, this is likely to be the source of many sleepless nights for you. You will lie awake, look upon your heart, and find it unlovely. You will be certain that, regardless of what I have said, you are the greatest of monsters. This is a good thing; although you may forgive yourself, you must never come to think that your actions were in any way justifiable. But - ” He chuckled, ironically. “As Iceshadow told
me,
being a sane, honorable human is not always
comfortable.
”

:He should go set up shop on a mountaintop somewhere,:
Cymry said.
:He‘d make a prime Wise Old Teacher. He’s already got the part about tormenting the students down perfectly.:

Wintermoon drew himself up and stared at her in mock affrontery. “I heard that,” he protested.

:I meant you to.:

Skif grinned, and the grin turned into a yawn. Wintermoon caught it, and pointed an admonishing finger at him.

“We still have work ahead of us, and that work requires rest. As you
both
know.” He spread out his bedroll by way of making an example, and climbed into it. “Stars light your path, Wingsibs,” he said pointedly, and made a show of turning on his side and closing his eyes.
“Wyrsa
have no respect for crisis of conscience.”

Well, that about sums the evening up,
he thought as he rolled out his own bedroll and crawled into its warmth. And then he thought nothing more, for sleep crept up and ambushed him.

Nyara slicked back her sweat-soaked hair, hardly feeling the cold as the chill breeze dried her scalp. She licked salt from her lips and crouched in the shelter of the bushes for a moment, surveying the open expanse of cracked and crazed pavement that kept the forest from encroaching on the foot of her tower. Though the stones were fragmented, even melted in places, they must have been incredibly thick, for nothing but grass grew in the cracks. It looked similar in construction to the ruins around the gryphons’ home, though the tower’s age and makers were unknown to her.

There was no sign of anything waiting for her, but she had learned to leave subtle telltales, things easily disturbed by interlopers. The “random” lines of gravel, for instance; not so random, and placed so that one or more of them would be scuffed by anyone crossing the paving. The faint threads of shields that would vanish if breached - or, just as importantly, if even touched by a mage’s probing. With her feeble command of magic, she could scarcely hope to build a shield that would hide her presence from a greater mage, so she didn’t even try. Instead, she concentrated on things that would let her know if she had been discovered, so that she had the time to run and hide somewhere else.

But once again, her refuge seemed secure; the threads were still in place, the pavement clear. Nevertheless, she stayed in the shelter of the evergreen bushes, and sent a careful probe up into the heart of her shelter.

:Well?:
That was all she Mindsent. Anything more could reveal her location to lurkers. There were creatures - some of them her father’s - that were nothing more than compasses for the thoughts of those who could Mindspeak. Normally only the one Spoken to could Hear, but these creatures could Hear everything, and could follow the thoughts of a Mindspeaker from leagues away.

:All’s clear,:
came the gravelly reply.
:Come on up, kitten. I trust you had good hunting. :

Now she relaxed; nothing got past her teacher.
:Quite good,:
she replied shortly.
:No visitors?:

:None,:
came the answer.
:Unless you count our daily cleanup committee.:

She would have worried if
they
hadn’t shown up. Anything bad enough to frighten off a vulture was a serious threat indeed.
:I’m coming up,:
she Sent, and only then arose from her shelter, pushing through the bushes and trotting out into the open - as always, with a thrill of fear at leaving her back exposed to the forest, where someone
else
could be lurking.

She padded quickly across the paving, taking care to avoid her own traps. The less she had to redo in the morning, the sooner she would be able to get out to hunt. The sooner she got out to hunt, the more practice she would have. She was under no illusions about her hunting successes; the colder the weather grew, the scarcer the game would become, and the harder it would be for her to catch it. She had never truly hunted for her meals before this, and was no expert. She was lucky; lucky that game was so abundant here, and lucky that she was getting practice now, while it
was
abundant, and a miss was not nearly so serious as it would be later in the winter.

The wall of her tower loomed up before her, the mellowed gray of weathered granite. The tower had that look about it of something intended to defend against all comers. She took the neck of the pheasant she had caught in her teeth, and set her finger- and toe-claws into the stone, and began climbing. The scent of the fresh-killed bird just under her nose made her mouth water. Just as well there had been no blood, or she would have been in a frenzy of hunger.

As she climbed, it occurred to her that it was not going to be pleasant, if indeed
possible,
to make the climb in winter. Ice, snow, or sleet would make the rock slippery; cold would numb her hands and feet. The prospect daunted her.

Well, no point in worrying about it now; truly dismal weather was still a few weeks off, and anyway, there was nothing she could do about it at the moment. Not while she was clinging to sheer stone, three stories above the pavement, with another to go.

Perhaps a ladder, like the Tayledras outside the Vale use for their treehouses.
True, she did not have a bird to let the ladder down for her, or to hide the line that pulled it up, but she had magic. Not much, but she was learning to use every bit of what she had, and use it cleverly. A bit of magic could take the end of such a ladder up, and drop it down again when she returned.

So many trips up and down that stone had taught her where all the holds were, and now she didn’t even need to think about where she was putting her hands and feet. This was the most vulnerable moment in her day - this, and the opposite trip in the morning. There was a staircase up the inside of the tower, but although it looked sound, appearance was very deceptive. It was, in fact, one more of her traps and defenses, and anyone chancing it would find himself taking a two- or three-story drop to the ground, depending on how far he got before the weakened stone gave way beneath him.

But then, she privately thought that anyone trusting his weight to an unproven stair - in a ruined tower, no less - probably deserved what he found.

Her mind wandered off on its own, planning lightweight ladders and imagining what she might use to make them, discarding idea after idea. She came to the conclusion that she might be trying to make things a little
too
elaborate; after all, by virtue of her breeding she was a much better climber than the best of the Tayledras. A simple, knotted rope might serve her better.

At that point, her hand encountered the open space of her window, and she grasped the sill with both hands, and hauled herself up and over the stone slab. She swung her legs inside and dropped down to the floor, crouching there for a moment. She took the pheasant out of her mouth and grinned, as her teacher and weapon growled in her mind
:I hate it when you do that. You look like a cat that’s just caught someone’s pet bird.:

“But it is not a pet bird, Need,” she replied pertly. “It is my dinner.”

:So is the pet bird for the cat,:
the sword said,
:But nobody ever asks the bird how it feels about the situation.:

She sat down cross-legged on the bare stone of the floor, and began industriously plucking her catch. “If it gets caught, it deserves to get eaten,” she told the sword.

:You stole that from the Hawkbrothers.:
Need accused.

She shrugged. “So? That does not make it less true. And like all Hawkbrother sayings, it is double-edged. If it gets caught, it
deserves
to be eaten - to be appreciated, used entirely and with respect, and not robbed of something stupid, like a tail-feather, and discarded as useless. I honor my kill, and I am grateful that I caught it. If it has a soul, I hope that soul finds a welcome reward.”

Need had nothing to say in reply to that. Nyara smiled, knowing that “no comment” was usually a compliment of sorts.

She put the best of the feathers aside; the large, well-formed ones she would use to fletch arrows, the rest would go to stuff her carefully-tanned rabbit hides. Need had been teaching her a great deal; she had come to this tower with nothing but a knife she had filched from Skif and the sword. Now she had clothing made from the hides of animals she had caught; a bed of furs from the same source, with pillows of fur stuffed with feathers on a thick pallet of cured grasses. And that was not all; over in the corner were the bow and arrows Need had taught her to make and was teaching her to use. Need had already taught her the skills of the sling she had used to take this pheasant.

The sword had also unbent enough to conjure - or steal by magic - a few other things for her, things she couldn’t make herself. Not many, but they were important possessions; a firestarter, four pots, three waterskins and a bucket, one spoon, a second knife, and a coil of rope. The latter was precious and irreplaceable; she had used it only to haul heavy game and her water up the side of her tower.

:Are you going to eat that raw?:
Need demanded. She licked her lips thoughtfully; she was very hungry and had been considering doing just that. But the way the question had been phrased - and the fact that her teacher had asked the question at all - made her pause.

“Why?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with that?”

If the sword could have moved, it would have shrugged.
:Not intrinsically,:
Need replied.
:But it gives the impression that you are more beast than human. That is
not
the impression we are trying to give.:

Nyara did not trouble to ask just who would be there to observe her. True, there was no one except herself and her mentor at the moment, but she sensed that Need did not intend either of them to be hidden away in the wilderness forever.

She doesn‘t want me to seem more beast than human.
Need had been trying to reverse the physical changes Nyara’s father had made to her; now she had an inkling of why. Need wanted to make her look. . . .

Less like an animal.
Perhaps she should have been offended when that thought occurred to her, and she was, in a way, but rather than making her angry with Need, it made her angry at her father.
He
was the one who had made so many changes to her body and mind that Need had been incoherent with rage for days upon discovering them.
He
was the “father” that had made her into a warped slave, completely in thrall to him, often unable even to act in her own defense.

Need had done her best to reverse those changes; some she had, but they were all internal. There was no mistaking her origin; the slitted eyes alone shouted “Changechild.”

If the world saw a beast - the world would kill the beast. It was not fair, but very little in Nyara’s life had ever been fair. At least this was understandable. Predictable.

Mornelithe Falconsbane had never been that, ever.

No one was here to see her now except Need, but when she finished plucking the pheasant, instead of tearing off a limb and devouring it raw as her stomach demanded, she gutted and cleaned it as neatly as any Tayledras hunter or
hertasi
cook, and set it aside.