A troop of black riders kept one of his messengers from reaching him, herding the man with no weapon but fear, running him until his horse foundered, then chasing him afoot until he was exhausted. Then they left him lying in the snow for Falconsbane's patrols to find. By then, it was too late; the man barely had a chance to gasp out what had happened to him before he died of heart failure, his message unspoken.
All of the broken glass in the windows of his stronghold was replaced somehow in a single hour-but not by clear glass, by blood-red glass, shading the entire fortress in sanguine gloom. He liked the effect, but his servants kept lighting lanterns to try and dispel it a little.
Every root vegetable in the storage cellar sprouted overnight, growing long, pallid roots and stems. The onions even blossomed. His cook had hysterics and collapsed, thinking Mornelithe would blame him.
Two hundred lengths of black velvet appeared in the forecourt, cut to cape-length.
All of the wine turned to vinegar, and all of the beer burst its kegs, leaving the liquor cellar a stinking, sodden mess.
Another black rider waylaid the cook's helper sent to requisition new stores and forced him to follow. There were wagonloads of wine- and beer-barrels, of sacks of roots, all in the middle of a pristine, untouched, snow- covered clearing. With no footprints or hoofprints anywhere about, and no sign of how all those provisions had gotten there.
All of the weather vanes were replaced overnight with new ones. The old weather vanes had featured the former owner's arms; these featured black iron horses.
A huge flock of blackbirds and starlings descended on the castle for half a day, leaving everything covered with whitewash.
Something invisible got into the stable in broad daylight, opened all the stalls and paddock gates, and spooked the horses. It took three days to find them all.
When the last horse-Falconsbane's own mount, on the few occasions he chose to ride-was found, it was wearing a magnificent new hand-tooled black saddle, black barding, black tack. And in the saddlebag was a scrying crystal double the size and clarity of the one he had shattered in a fit of pique.
He paced the length of his red-lit study, trying to make some sense of the senseless. It was driving him to distraction, for even those acts that could be interpreted as 'attacks' could have been part of a courting pattern. He had done similar things in the past-sent a gift, then done something that said, 'see how powerful I am, I can best you in your own home.' The courting of mage-to-mage was sometimes an odd thing, as full of anger as desire... as full of hate as lust.
But if it was courting, who was doing it? It couldn't be Shin'a'in, for they avoided all forms of magic. It couldn't be Tayledras; they hated him as much as he hated them.
Who was it, then? He thought he had eliminated any possible rivals and only rivals would think to court him.
He stopped stark still, as a thought occurred to him. There had been a time when he had fostered the illusion that the mage the Outlanders were so afraid of had been seeking to ally with him. What if he was the one behind all this? It would make sense-black riders to send against white ones-black horses instead of the Guardian Spirits.
Now that he thought about it, the idea made more and more sense...He called a servant, who appeared promptly, but showing less fear than usual. He had not blamed any of his servants for the bizarre events that had been occurring lately, and that had given them some relief.
Besides, he had been getting tired of the smell of fear in his halls. Why, he hadn't even killed a slave in days...'I want you to find Dhashel, Toron, Flecker, and Quorn,' he told the servant. 'These are their orders, simple ones. There is a land to the north and east: Hardorn. Its king is one Ancar; he is a mage. He is also the sworn enemy of the two Outlanders with the k'sheyna, and at war with their land of Valdemar. This much I know. I desire to know more.
Much more.' He blinked, slowly, and fixed the servant with his gaze.
'Do you understand all of that?' The servant nodded, and repeated the orders word-for-word. Falconsbane was pleased; he would remember never to kill or maim this one.
Good service deserved reward, after all.
'Now go, and tell them to hurry,' he said, turning back to the couch and his new scrying crystal. 'I am eager to hear what they can learn.'
Darkwind rose unsteadily to his feet as Iceshadow tapped his shoulder in the signal that meant Iceshadow was there to relieve him. He staggered out of the former Stone clearing and up the path toward the ekele shared by Nyara and Skif. He was tired, but this couldn't wait.
Something or someone was diverting the path of the proto-Gate. Every Moment spent in rapport with Firesong moving the proto-Gate toward the new Vale was a moment spent in constant battle to keep the Powerpoint on the right course.
They couldn't be sure who was doing it, of course, but for Darkwind, Falconsbane was high on the list. It was possible to anchor the protogate temporarily, thank the gods, or they would all have been worn away to nothing, for what they had hoped would take only hours was taking days.
Firesong especially was under stress; since the proto-Gate was linked to him, personally, he had to be the one in charge of directing its path.
Although the hertasi swarmed over him, bringing him virtually everything he needed, there was one thing they could not give him, and that was rest.
But since they had learned that the proto-Gate could be anchored, his helpers only needed to work in four- candlemark shifts, and he himself needed only to work for eight.
Darkwind had been very dubious about the wisdom of leaving the proto-Gate unguarded, but they really had no choice. Firesong would be helped into bed at the end of the day and sleep solidly until it was time to work again. So he had held his peace and had hoped that there was no way to interfere with the energy-point without Firesong knowing.
