Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

The light was eclipsed by three horses running toward the hole, and then they were there in the camp, swerving off to the side at a gallop. “Go!” Treyvan called, and the horses pulling the line of wagons churned hooves toward the Gate and went through. The courier on the pony surged through the hole last, and then the Gate was allowed to collapse. Treyvan dropped back to all fours, swaying and panting.

Two of the horses bore trondi’irn Whitebird, her assistant, and a heavy load of supplies. Whitebird’s appearance was striking—she dressed in a half dozen shades of blue, and her hair was past shoulder length and as snowy as the third “horse” that had come through. A swarthy man in a Herald’s uniform was astride a mare Companion, and dismounted to speak earnestly with Captain Stavern. Treyvan walked briskly toward the convalescents’ tent, and the trondi’irn fell in behind him.

Whitebird let her assistant take the horses as she walked the rest of the way to the tent. When she saw Kelvren dozing, she stared, mouth open. “Oh, you poor thing,” she gasped.

She rushed to Kelvren’s side, resting her hands on his shoulder, his wing, and down his flank. She leaned in to smell him, taking in his scent from beak to rump. A minute later, her assistant came in laden with cases and pouches. They extracted instruments and vials from them and took samples from the wounds, judged the colors they turned, and set them aside on a complex anatomical chart. Kelvren roused from slumber—barely—and rolled a glassy eye sideways to view the two new people.

“Oh, good,” he murmured, and then drifted back to sleep.

Whitebird glanced at Treyvan with an unreadable expression, then stood to stand near him. She spoke in Kaled’a’in. “Trey—this looks very bad. He has such strong infections I can smell them. I don’t know how he’s lasted this long unless it’s divine providence or pure willpower. We’ll get to work on him immediately, but I’ll be honest with you, it’s definitely a ruin.” She wiped down her hands with a wet cloth that smelled of vinegar. “Right now, it looks like hirs’ka’usk, and if you don’t find a way to rejuvenate his magic, he’ll be lost to us in days. I can give him medicine and prime his body for a rejuvenation, but if you can’t infuse him with power, the best I can hope to do is stabilize him as he is. No strength, no flight—for a life of a few months.” The elder gryphon rumbled and nodded, and Whitebird bent to her work on Kelvren. “I’ll be here for four or five candlemarks.”

“She’s beautiful,” one of the men behind her said. “I think I’m in love.”

“Grow some wings and I’m yours,” Whitebird answered without looking up. “Until then, get me some hot water.”

Ammari, Birce, Hallock, and Whitebird’s assistant Rivenstone sat on folding chairs, huddled with Treyvan in the tent across from where Whitebird still tended to Kelvren’s wounds. Jeft stayed by her, fetching whatever Pena did not.

“Whitebirrrd and I have conferrred with Firrresssong and Hydona by telessson. What we attempt—we do not know what the rrresssult will be. If we take a longerrr-terrrm path, therrre isss a ssslight chancsse he will rrrecoverrr, but find hisss flight limited orrr gone. If we attempt thisss—rrrejuvenation—he will jussst asss likely die frrrom it.”

Ammari asked, “Why?”

Rivenstone answered her. “When his inner channels are opened up, it will be a surge through the feather roots—where gryphons collect ther energy and begin its conversion. The sudden rush of power into—by now— sensitized vessels might well boil out as heat. Or rather, boil in, and—ah—cook him. If we can keep the inrush to a steady flow, we may be able to draw it out of him before it becomes too much.” He steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on his knees. “I must be honest with you all. No gryphon has ever been drained so completely as Kelvren has.”

Treyvan laid out a spread of pages from one of the trondi’irn’s books. “We only have thisss frrrom the hissstorrries—an infusssion method unusssed sssince Ssskandrrranon’sss time. What effect it will have now, we can barrrely prrredict.” He looked off to the northwest. “Firrresssong isss bessside himssself—he wantsss ssso much to be herrre. He carrresss morrre about Kelvrrren than Kelvrrren prrrobably knowsss. He sssaysss everrryone frrrom Lorrrd Brrreon to the Ghossst Cat Clan wantsss Kelvrrren back. He sssaysss the Clansss arrre holding rrritualsss and lighting firrresss to guide Kelvrrren home to them.”

Everyone was silent for a moment.

“So,” Hallock began. “The questions are, do we try this method, can it be done, what is required for it to be done, and what will we do if it fails or succeeds?”

“If it fails,” Rivenstone answered, “he will be his own funaral pyre.”

“But the firrrssst quessstion isss what the rrressst hinge upon. Kelvrrren hasss rrresssolved that even if he diesss he hasss done well. I doubt he would want to lingerrr in a living death. Ssso I sssuggessst that we procsseed.”

The others agreed. “We will need a sssite to prrreparrre,” Treyvan stated. “And I confesss, it isss no sssmall rrrisssk to me. We need a placsse clossse by, but sssafe from casssual interrrferrencsse—becaussse in a matterrr of a day, I mussst consstrrruct a node.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Finally Hallock asked, “What’s a node?”

“A confluence of magical power,” Rivenstone replied. “Like streams run to a lake, a node is where lines of force converge. But since the Storms, those lines have been largely dispersed. If Treyvan tried to use his personal power, he could wind up like Kelvren is, and Kelvren still wouldn’t be healed. So he has to use an outside source of power—a node. There aren’t any nodes around here, so we need a place to make one. Safely. Quickly.”

Ammari raised her hand shyly. “Uhm. Will a Changecircle do?”

Being gryphon through and through, Treyvan was very physical about his magic—but to human eyes he looked utterly mad while he worked. He had gotten volunteers to go into the Changecircle and dig holes in specific places, with the deepest in the very center, a man’s height in depth. He dropped particular stones in the holes and covered them up, and paced around the Changecircle, muttered to himself, then did things his gathered audience found inexplicable. Many times he leaped ten feet in the air and suddenly dove down, thumbs locked, as if trying to push a stake into the ground with his forefeet; other times he would slink along the ground and turn his head side to side before jumping up to circle in the air over the site.

Shafts of light erupted from the ground periodically, equidistant around the circle. Treyvan walked around each one, then drew glowing lines in midair toward the center of the circle, and subdivided them. More shafts of light shone, higher this time, where those lines crossed, and then wavered. Treyvan growled and leaped on one that was brighter than the rest, and the others became evenly brighter.

He warned loudly that no one was to enter the Changecircle for any reason, and took to the air, flew a circuit across the Changecircle, and then arced back to the convalescents’ tent, where Kelvren was awake after his trondi’irn’s drug-enforced sleep. Treyvan murmured to Pena, who dashed off after something. Hallock intercepted Treyvan.

“Kel was just giving me his opinions about this political and military situation, in case the worst should happen,” the captain said. “And I have to say, I’m impressed. You should hear this.” He looked down at the notes he’d written. “ ‘In this conflict the Guard is already beaten, because they do not want to fight their fellow Valdemarans. And this insurgent militia, brought to bear arms against the Guard and Heralds, are also beaten for the same reason. In their hearts—regardless of blades, arrows, and horse—they cancel each other out. Therefore, the battle is between the mercenaries and the callous bastards who incited this, who owe no allegience to this country and have no affection for it—and those mercenaries hired by the Crown, who do feel affection for this country, but hold no pressing regard to spare that militia or their hired counterparts. So to make this conflict collapse, the motives must be attacked, without swords and arrows piercing flesh, and thus make the mercenaries cancel each other out. Create a collapse within this insurgents’ power structure, and the mercenaries fold up. Then may Valdemarans be brothers again, and meet in taverns to give thanks and apologize to each other, rather than soak their beloved soil in the blood of their brothers.”

“Hurrrh. The Shin’a’in sssay, ‘therrre are only two powerrrsss in a warrr—the sssworrrd and the ssspirrrit, and the sspirrrit will alwaysss win out.’ If Kelvrrren wasss a warrrlorrrd, we would all sssurrrely be in trrrouble,” Treyvan said in all seriousness. “Hisss ability to find powerrr in the mossst minorrr of thingsss isss unnerrrving.”

Hallock looked back toward Kelvren. “I think he really needed to tell me all of that. It seemed very important to him, even though it exhausted him to say it.”

“He wantsss morrre than anything to feel effective,” Treyvan observed. “But, I sssuppossse, ssso do we all.”