Nyara any good? And why complicate matters? It was very nice that this An'desha fellow had helped them, but sometimes you had to accept innocent casualties....
The realist and the Herald warred within him, and the realist looked to be winning, but it was not making him feel anything other than soiled, old, and terribly cynical.
'We could, and it would be simpler,' Firesong admitted reluctantly. 'But it is something I do not care for. On the other hand, one less complication might increase our chances for surviving this.' It looked to Skif as if he were facing his own internal struggle, and didn't care for the realities of the situation either.
Skif nodded; Elspeth looked uncomfortable and distressed, but nodded also, for she had learned long ago to accept that the expedient way might be the best way. But to Skif's surprise, it was Nyara who spoke up against the idea.
'Need has given me a sense of what An'desha has dwelt within, all these years,' she said slowly. 'What Falconsbane did to me is nothing to what he has done to this boy. He has helped us at risk of real death - and he has done so knowing we might decide not to help him. I say it would reflect ill upon us all our days if we were to pretend he did not exist. I say we should save him if we can, and I put my life up for trying.'
She looked at Skif as if she were afraid he would think her to be crazed. He did - but it was the kind of 'crazed' that he could admire. He crossed the tent and took her in his arms for a moment, then turned to the others.
'Nyara's right. It's stupid, it's suicidal, but Nyara's right and I was wrong.' He gulped, shaking all over, but feeling an odd relief as well. 'We have to help this boy, if we can.'
'All right, Great Mage Pandemonium,' he said. 'Then let's do this all or nothing. After all - ' he grinned tautly as he remembered his old motto, the one he had told Talia so very long ago. ' - if you're going to traverse thin ice, you might as well dance your way across!'
Night fell, and Falconsbane's preparations were all in place. They were in for another bout of wizard-weather, this time an unseasonable cold, and as far as he was concerned, that was all to the good. Bad weather would make it easier for him to disguise himself.
There was a very convincing simulacrum of himself in the bed, apparently sleeping, in case anyone came in while he was gone.
Ancar was in his war-room, a large chamber with a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the palace. Hulda, of course, was still in her cell, and showing no signs of breaking free. The other mages were all with Ancar, but the King did not trust Falconsbane enough to allow him access to the actual battle plans unless things had unraveled to the point that there was no choice.
The servants were mostly elsewhere. Rumors of what Falconsbane had done to the prisoners Ancar had given him insured that, except when he was known to be sleeping. There were two guards at his door, however..,.
Falconsbane moved soundlessly to the doorway, and placed his hands at head-height on either side of the doorframe. This would be very tricky; he had very little mind-magic, so this would all be true spellcasting. Difficult, when one could not see one's target....
He gathered his powers; closed his eyes, concentrating, building up the forces. And then, at the moment of greatest tension, let them fly, arrows of power from each hand that pierced the wall without a sound.
He opened his eyes. There was no noise, no hint of disturbance, on the other side of the door.
He reached for the voluminous cloak he'd had one of the servants bring him this morning and swirled it over his shoulders. It fell gracefully to his feet in heavy folds; he pulled the hood up over his head, using it to cover his face, so that nothing showed but his eyes. As cold as it was tonight, no one would think anything wrong, seeing a man muffled to the nose in a cloak. Likely, everyone else on the street would be doing the same thing and hoping that it would not rain.
He opened the door. The two guards still stood there, at rigid attention. Perhaps - a trifle too rigid?
Mornelithe chuckled and waved his hand in front of their glazed eyes. 'Hello?' he said, softly, knowing there would be no response.
Nor was there. Ancar had not thought to armor the guards he had on Falconsbane against spell-casting, trusting in the coercions to keep Falconsbane from doing anything to them. But Mornelithe was not doing anything against Ancar's interests, no indeed....
'Just going for a little walk, men,' Mornelithe whispered to the unresponsive guards in a moment of perverse whimsy. 'I'll be back before you miss me, I promise!'
He closed the door carefully and set off down the hallway in a swirl of dark fabric. He was not worried about the servants seeing him; if they caught sight of him, they would never imagine the stranger was Falconsbane, and Mornelithe's authoritative stride was enough to make most of them think twice about challenging his presence in
