Winds of Fury (45 page)

While he and Darkwind set up the stage, Elspeth and Nyara crawled under the wagon to take the tent and tent poles from the rack beneath. By the time the stage was set up, they had the tent spread out on the other side, ready to erect. He and Darkwind pounded stakes into the soft earth at each corner, ready to take the guy ropes.

Another stage dropped down from this side of the wagon, but this one had a curtain behind it and was the actual wagon wall. Nyara would appear and retreat into the wagon itself, which doubled as their living-quarters. The wagon formed the back wall of the tent, with the canvas forming the other three walls and roof. It only held about ten people crowded in together, but the stage was high enough that no one could reach Nyara without encountering either him or Elspeth. Lanterns on either side of the curtain gave enough light to see most of Nyara's performance.

Ten was as many people as they wanted to have to handle, just in case anyone decided to try to get more out of Nyara than a dance. Darkwind provided the “music” she danced to—a drum—and Skif and Elspeth stood guard over the stage while Firesong guarded the outside. If the men ever got to the point where swords weren't deterrent enough, Darkwind or Elspeth would hit them with true magic to get rid of them.

The canvas was heavy and unwieldy; he and Firesong—who had shed the hat and most of the robes to help with the work—took one side, while Darkwind and Elspeth wrestled with the other, and Nyara crawled inside to set up the tent poles. He sneaked a look at her receding—anatomy.

The first few times they'd done this, it had taken so long that the other wagon-folk had given them a hand so that the carnival could open before dark. Now they were only a little slower than the rest, which was fine, since they were at the end of the line anyway. They would be set up by the time people actually got here.

He sniffed; there was hot oil and spice from the foodvendors, who sold grease-fried bits of salty dough and other things, cups of sweetened water with vegetable dyes in them, and very cheap beer. He knew better than to eat anything from the vendors; one of the reasons that “Pandemonium Cure-All” made money was that it had stomach-soothers in it, and the Great Mage Pandemonium could usually effect a cure or two right on the spot. The vendors shrugged and said philosophically that Faire-food was always pretty awful; if you wanted a good meal, you ate at home. But given the hungry stares some of the people of Hardorn had, Skif had to wonder if this was good food now, to them. Gods, that was a frightening thought.

The center of the tent rose to a peak; Nyara had gotten the middle pole up. She always had a knack for that. A moment later, the two corner poles went in. Skif and Darkwind pulled the corner ropes as tight as they could, then tied them to the stakes they'd pounded into the ground. The canvas by the wagon bobbed as Nyara tied it to the top of the wagon from inside. He dusted off his muddy hands on his breeches and went around to the front to join the others.

Darkwind and Elspeth were already at the edge of the outer stage, and a moment later, Firesong emerged from the back of the wagon, his dubious finery back in place and a grin on his face. His firebird stretched its wings by flying to the front of the carnival and back, causing cries of excitement from the gathering townsfolk as it flew overhead, streaming ribbons. Vree did the same, indulging in some aerobatics to make up in showmanship what he lacked in appearance.

“We've got everything well in hand,” Darkwind said, as he looked around for something to do. “Why don't you go into the wagon and spend a little time with Nyara before the first show? You two have little enough time with each other.”

It was a suggestion Darkwind didn't have to make twice. Skif ran up the set of stairs at the tail of the wagon and joined Nyara.

She was putting on little bits of makeup and rabbit fur to make her look as if she was wearing a costume. They included a preposterous pair of artificial ears that she could have used as sails, if they'd had a boat.

She was holding them with an expression of distaste. “I do not like these,” she sighed. “They do not fit well, and they are very itchy!”

He chuckled and took one for her, carefully fitting it over her own, delicately pointed ear. “If you wouldn't be so impatient, and wait for me to come and help you, they wouldn't itch as badly,” he told her, carefully gluing it in place along her cheek.

She smiled wryly, and handed him the other one to put on for her, then began to add cat-stripes to her forehead and cheekbones. “I wish we did not have to do this,” she said pensively. But behind the pensive expression, he sensed real strain and fear. Was there more strain there tonight than last night?

“I do, too,” he told her, his voice husky with the effort of holding back emotions. She turned, then, and quickly laid the palm of her hand against his cheek, staring up into his eyes.

“If you dislike it so greatly that it hurts you—I will stop—” she faltered, searching his face for his true feelings. “We could—I could be displayed in a cage, perhaps—”

But that notion clearly made her more afraid than the dancing did. He shook his head, his stomach in turmoil, and captured her hand in his own. “No,” he told her. “No, this is the best and fastest way to get Him to hear about you. We need that. But—I worry about you,” he continued, his throat feeling choked and thick. “I know that this could be hurting you, all these men, staring at you, and thinking the way your father did. I worry if you think
I'm
thinking that, too, if you wonder if that's the only way I see you, as something to use—to own—”

She licked her lips and swallowed. “Yes,” she admitted after a long moment. “Yes, sometimes I do wonder that. And sometimes I wonder if that is the only real worth I have—”

He started to blurt something, but she laid her finger against his lips, and smiled, a thin, sad smile but a real one. “But then,” she continued, “you say something like you just did—or Need tells me to stop being a stupid little kitten and get
on
with my job, and I know it is not true.”

She took her finger away, pulled him close, and locked him in another of her impossible, indescribable embraces.

When she released him again, she said only, “I love you, Herald-man.”

He kissed her gently, but with no less passion. “I love you, too, cat-lady.”

She laughed at the grease-makeup that smeared his face and delicately touched a clawed finger to the tip of his nose.

And then Darkwind began to beat the drum for Firesong's first turn, and there was no time. . . .

 

Treyvan narrowed his eyes, and regarded a scarlet-clad Sun-priestess with what he hoped was a predatory expression. “I agrrree with you that Rassshi isss a young idiot,” he said carefully, “and he isss likely mossst difficult to worrrk with. He isss ssscatterrrbrrrained.”

The priestess nodded, her mouth forming a tight, angry line.

“But,
” he continued, “you will worrrk with him. He knowsss the ssspellsss that you do not, and you need to know them. Morrre, you need to learrrn how to worrrk with thossse you do not carrre forrr.”

The priestess tossed her head; he had been warned about her. She was formerly from a noble Karsite family, and she was very conscious of her birth-rank. She had made trouble before this, during her training as a Priestess. Rashi, besides being scatterbrained, was the son of a pigkeeper. But he was kindhearted as well, and he knew a series of protective spells that no one else here had mastered—and whether she liked it or not, Treyvan was determined that Gisell
would
learn them, and would learn to work with him.

Treyvan rose to his full height, and towered over her. “You will worrrk with him,” he repeated. “A mage who will not cooperrrate isss a dangerrr to all of usss. And I am
not
of Valdemarrr, Karrrse, orrr Rrrethwellan. I do not
carrre
about you orrr yourrrr alliancesss. I will be gone when thisss warrr isss overrr. I do thisss asss a perrsssonal favorrr to Darrrkwind. And I will sssnap the sssspine of anyone who makesss thisss tasssk morrrre difficult!”

Her face went blank, as she picked his words out of the tangle of trills and hisses, and then she paled. He snapped his beak once, loudly, by way of emphasis, a sound like two dry skulls crunching against each other.

“I have younglingssss to feed,” Hydona added suggestively, looking over Treyvan's shoulder. “Meat-eaterrrsss. They
do
ssso love meat of good brrreeding.”

The priestess swallowed once, audibly, then tried to smile. “Perhaps Rashi simply needs some patience?” she suggested meekly.

“Patiencssse isss a good thing,” Treyvan agreed, lying back down again. “Patiencssse isss a jewel in the crrrown of any prrriessstesss.”

The priestess bowed with newly-born meekness, then turned to go back to poor young Rashi, her assigned partner, who probably had no idea the young woman had come storming up to Treyvan to demand someone else. The trouble was, there
was
no one else. The priestess had alienated every Herald and most of the Rethwellan mages except dim but good-natured Rashi.

Gisell was only half-trained, but would certainly be Master rank when she finally completed her schooling. Rashi was only a bottom-rank Journeyman, a plain and simple earth-wizard, and never would be any more powerful than that—but his training had been the best. His instincts were sharp, and his skills were sound.

This was the essence of all the pairs, triads, and quartets that Treyvan and Hydona were setting up. Powerful but half-trained mages were partnered with educated but less powerful mages, with the former working
through
the latter, as Elspeth had worked in partnership with Need. To the knowledge of any of the fully-schooled mages, no one had ever tried this before. All the better. What had never been tried, Ancar could not anticipate.

Some of these teams were already out with the Guard or the Skybolts—and there had been, not one, but
two
Adept-class potential Heralds among the two dozen or so that had come riding in, responding to the urgent need sent out on the Web. Both of them had been paired immediately, one with the single White Winds teacher young enough to endure the physical hardships of this war, and one with the Son of the Sun's right-hand wizard, a surprisingly young man with a head full of good sense and a dry sense of humor that struck chords with Treyvan's own. They were doing a very fine job of holding Ancar's progress to a crawl, simply by forcing Ancar's mages to layer protections on the coercive spells controlling his fighters. Ancar had, in fact, been forced to send in the Elite Guard, putting them immediately behind the coerced troops to supply a different kind of motivation to advance.

Treyvan and Hydona were in complete charge of Valdemar's few mages and mage-allies, simply because they
were
the most foreign. Their ongoing story, at least so far as anyone other than Selenay and her Council were concerned, was just what Treyvan had told that young priestess. They were doing this as a favor to Darkwind; they were completely indifferent to Valdemaran politics, external or internal. Add to that their size and formidable appearance . . . thus far, no one had cared to challenge any of their edicts. When they needed to coordinate with Valdemar's forces, they went through subcommanders Selenay had assigned.

Treyvan turned his attention back to the trio he had been working with before Gisell interrupted. “Yourrr parrrdon,” he said, thinking as he did so that at any other time and place, these three would have been at such odds that there would probably have been bloodshed. Not that they weren't getting along; they were cooperating surprisingly well. But a south-border Herald, a red-robed Priest of Vkandis, and a mage who had once fought Karse under Kerowyn . . . it could have been trouble.

The priest shrugged, the Herald chuckled, and the mere mage shook his head. “Gisell always difficult has been,” the priest said, in his stilted Valdemaran. “Young, she is.”

“Just wait until she gets out on the lines, she'll settle down,” the Herald advised. The mage, an older man, bent and wizened, nodded.

“They gen'rally do,” he said comfortably. “Either that, or they don' last past their first fight.” He glanced at the other two. “You, now—I kin work with the both of ye.”

“Query, one only, had I,” the priest said, looking at Treyvan, but with a half-smile for the old man. Treyvan waited, but the priest, oddly, hesitated. Treyvan wished he could read human faces better; this man's expression was an odd one. It looked like his face-skin was imploding.

“Red-robe, I am not, truly,” he said after a moment. “Black-robe am I. Or was I.”

He looked from the Herald to the other mage, who shrugged without comprehension, and sighed.

“Black-robe, the Son has said, no more to be. Blackrobes, demon-runners are.” And he watched, warily, for a reaction.

He got one. The old mage hissed and stepped back a pace; the Herald's eyes widened. It was the Herald who spoke first, not to Treyvan, but to the priest.

“I'd heard rumors some of you could control demons,” he said, his eyes betraying his unease, “but I never believed it—I never saw anything to make me believe it.”

“Control?” The priest shrugged. “Little control. As—control great rockfall. Take demon—send demon—capture demon. The Son likes demons not; the Son has said: ‘Demons be of the dark, Vkandis is all of the light.' Therefore, no more demon-runners.”

“So she demoted you?” the mage demanded. “Uh—took your rank.”

But the priest shook his head. “No. Rank stays, robe goes, and no more demon-runners.” He turned back to Treyvan. “Question: demons terrible be and all of the dark. Yet them do we use now, here?”