He opened the door into the warmth and light of the staircase and found one of his outriders waiting there for him.
He snarled and clenched his fists at his side; this was more of that news, he knew it, and he wanted so badly to maim the bearer of it that h~ shook with the effort to control himself.
The man's face was white as paper; he trembled with such fear that he was incapable of speech. He held out an intricately carved black box to his master, a box hardly bigger than the palm of his hand.
Falconsbane took it and waited for the man to force the words past his fear to tell his master where this trinket of carved wood had come from. But when the man failed utterly to get anything more than an incoherent hiss past his clenched teeth, Falconsbane ruthlessly seized control of his mind with yet another spell, and tore the story from him.
It only took a moment to absorb, mind-to-mind, but what he learned quelled his anger far more effectively than the wind had.
His hand clutched convulsively on the box as the tale unfolded, and he left the man collapsed upon the stairs in a trembling heap, ignoring whatever damage he had done to the outrider's mind. He took the stairs two at a time back to the safety and security of his newly-cleaned study; there was no sign of where the dead slave had been except a wide wet spot. And only there, with all his protections about him, did he use a tiny spell to open the tiny box from arm's length.
If this was a rational, ordered universe, it would contain something meant to cripple or kill him.
He held his shields about him, waiting.
Nothing happened.
The box contained, cradled in black, padded suede, a tiny figurine carved of shiny, black onyx.
The figure of a perfectly formed black horse, rearing, and no bigger than his thumbnail.
There was no scent of magic upon it-no trace of who or what had made or sent it. Although he knew what had delivered it, if not who it was from.
One of the black riders.
He retreated to his newly-covered couch and held the delicate little carving to the light, pondering what he had ripped from his servant's mind.
This particular outrider had seen these black-clad riders three times before this, but always they had vanished into the forest as soon as they knew they had been seen, leaving not even hoofprints behind. But this time had been different. This time he had seen the rider cleave a tree with a sword blow, and leave something atop the stump. The rider sheathed the sword and slipped into the shadows, like another shadow himself. When the outrider had reached the spot, he discovered this box.
And it weighted down one other thing. A slip of paper, that had burned to ash in his hand as soon as he had read it. A slip of paper bearing the name of his Master, Mornelithe Falconsbane, in the careful curved letters of Tradespeech.
As if there had been any doubt whatsoever who this was meant for-He turned the figurine over and over, staring at it. There was nothing here to identify it or the box, with its stylized geometric carvings, as coming from any particular land or culture. Was it a warning, or a gift?
If a gift, what did it mean? If a warning-who were these riders, who had sent them, and what did they want?
Skif and Nyara talked idly about the chase; this rabbit they were dressing out had been far more trouble than it was worth, but Nyara's capture of it was as worthy of admiration as any hawk's stoop. Wintermoon was gently cleaning a deep scratch one of the dyheli had suffered, several feet from the two of them.
Nyara had reentered their lives by simply coming into camp and waiting to be discovered. They'd found her between the two dyheli when they awoke, sitting with her knees tucked up to her chest and the sword Need at her feet. She looked different now-more human, and with sharply-defined muscles. She also moved with purpose rather than slinking like a cat; she had visibly undergone many changes, all of which served to fascinate Skif further.
There was no sign of any trouble, but suddenly Cymry's head shot up, and her eyes went wide and wild, with the whites showing all around them. Her body went from relaxed to tense; she stood with all four legs braced, and there was no doubt in Skif's mind what she sensed.
Danger. Terrible danger. Something was happening.
Skif stood and put one hand on her shoulder to steady her, as Nyara's face went completely blank. Nyara leapt to her feet and stared off in the same direction as Cymry, her own eyes mirroring a fear that Skif recognized only too well.
He felt nothing, but then, if it was magic that alerted them, he wouldn't. But he recognized what direction they were both staring in.
The Vale-where Elspeth was.
He tried to Mindtouch his Companion, but all of her attention was on the danger she had sensed. It was Need's mind-voice that growled in the back of his head, as he tried to break through Cymry's preoccupation.
'Leave her alone, boy. She's talking to Gwena. there's big trouble back with your bird-loving friends.' He dared a tentative thought in Need's direction, waiting for an instant rebuff. He still had no idea what Need thought of him, beyond the few things she had condescended to say to him. 'What kind of trouble?
Something involving us?' The sword hesitated a moment. 'Hmm. I'd say so. Your kitten's sire just tried to flatten the whole Vale. And I think-yes. No doubt. There's been a death.' Before Skif could panic, the sword continued. 'Not Elspeth; not Darkwind.
More, I can't tell you. there's some shamanic magic mixed in with the rest, and damned if I can read it.' Wintermoon stared at all of them with the impatient air of a man ready to strangle someone if he didn't get an explanation soon. Skif didn't blame him, and he broke off communication with the blade to tell the Hawkbrother what little Need had been able to tell him. The name of Mornelithe Falconsbane got his immediate attention.
'Falconsbane! But I thought-'
