If he ever comes back again, it will be as a cloud of gnats!
Firesong burned away the last little bit of the shelter within the Void, released the magical 'ash' of it into the flow of the Void, and then sank back into his own body.
He opened his eyes to find himself on the ground, with Nyara propping him up, and Skif and Fal - no, An'desha - staring at him intently. It was An'desha; Falconsbane would never, ever have had traces of tears on his cheeks. Falconsbane would never have Nyara's hand resting on his shoulder in a gesture of protective comfort.
It was An'desha who broke the waiting silence, as outside, people still exclaimed over the fading fireworks.
'Is he gone?' An'desha asked tremulously.
Firesong nodded wearily but with immense satisfaction.
An'desha stared at him for a moment, and then, unexpectedly, began weeping again; hoarse, racking sobs of long-pent and terrible grief.
Sobs that sounded uncannily like the ones Liam had made..
Firesong hesitated for a moment. Was there anything he could offer this poor boy? Would he believe comfort coming from another Adept such as his tormenter had been? Yet - oh, how he wanted to offer comfort and have it taken!
Firesong shakily levered himself up off the ground, knelt beside An'desha, and offered his arms tentatively.
An'desha folded into them as into a haven of safety. Firesong cradled the boy carefully, murmuring into his ear.
'It's all right, An'desha. It's all right now. He can never hurt anyone again. You beat him. You are safe now, and we will always be here to help you. I will always be here to help you....'
The sky overhead erupted into a garden of fiery flowers. Darkwind jerked up his head like a startled horse, and he stared at the odd-colored flashes, showers of sparks, and soundless lightning playing across the sky and lighting up the clouds.
'Damned showman,' he muttered under his breath. 'That 'Pandemonium' persona is rubbing off on him!'
Darkwind was on a horse he'd stolen from the stable of an inn; the horse, if not the current rider, belonged to Ancar's Elite. Elspeth was on Gwena, still cloaked in her illusion. Both of them were in stolen uniforms, with Elspeth's hair tucked up under her uniform hat, and her breasts bound flat, so that she looked like a very slender man. The uniforms hadn't been very difficult to get; there were plenty of troopers getting drunk in the city taverns, and if two of them woke up in the morning to find themselves stark naked, bound and gagged - well, it probably wasn't the first time something like that had happened. And by then, he and Elspeth would either be long gone, or no longer in a position to worry about the consequences of being identified.
He had cobbled together something that looked enough like a messenger pouch to pass at a distance, supposedly containing dispatches from the front lines. That had gotten them as far as the courtyard; they were about to dismount, when the fires in the sky began, and the currents of power around them bucked and heaved like a herd of startled dyheli.
To anyone with a scrap of mage-sense, it was distressing. He had never felt quite so violent a disturbance in the energy-currents before.
And now every man guarding the walls and the gates, every servant that heard the cries of surprise, and every stableboy came running out to gape at the skies like a parcel of fools. Their cries brought others.
And, unbelievably, Ancar!
He could hardly have missed the upheavals in the magic-currents, and given how many spells he had tied into Falconsbane, he must have been knocked metaphorically head-over-arse when they snapped back on him at the Beast's death. But they had never, in all their wildest hopes, imagined he would come running out onto the landing in front of the main doors of his palace like any other fool, just to look up at the sky!
