magical. Between one heartbeat and the next, he had established the Gate itself. In the next heartbeat, he had sought out the terminus in k'Treva Vale. In the third, he had anchored it, and the Gate stood open, ready to use, the greenery of k'Treva showing through on the other side, looking disconcertingly like and unlike k'Sheyna Vale.
'After you,' Skif said to Elspeth a little nervously, eying the portal which had been empty one moment, then black as pitch, then filled with scenery which was not the same as the clearing they stood in. She hid her smile, took Darkwind's hand, and together they stepped through -
She had been told she would feel something like a little jolt; a shock as she passed across the intervening 'real' distance. But instead of a shock, she felt a moment of disorientation -
She clutched at Darkwind's hand; there was something pulling and twisting, rippling across the power that held the Gate! He stared at her, his eyes wide - then he and everything else blurred and faded for a moment. Vree spread his wings and mantled in alarm; his beak opened, but nothing emerged.
She might have screamed; it didn't matter, for in that moment that they hung in the Void between Gates, no sound she made would be heard.
Then, just as suddenly, they dropped down with a lurch, safely on the other side. Vree was screaming, still agitated.
They were through. Except - it was not where they were supposed to be.
She looked around wildly, for there was no expanse before a carved archway; no wild and exotic foliage, and no waiting Tayledras. They stood on a dense mat of browned evergreen needles, in a tiny clearing. Behind them was the rough mouth of a cave. Before them was a northern forest, with no one at all in sight. The air was sharp and cool, spicy with pine-scent and mountain-odors. This was upland country; northern country - farther north than most of Valdemar.
Darkwind seized her elbow as she stood there aghast, wondering what had gone wrong, and hurried her out of the way. Just in time; first Skif and Nyara emerged, followed by the Companions, then the gryphons and their young, then Rris, the dyheli, and Firesong. All of them emerged with the same shocked, puzzled look on their faces.
Firesong was more than shocked, he was startled into speechlessness.
Darkwind seized him, jarring the firebird on his shoulder, which flapped its wings and uttered a high-pitched whistle of distress. 'What happened?' he demanded harshly. 'This is not k'Treva!'
Firesong only shook his head numbly. 'I - ' he faltered, at a loss for the first time since Elspeth had known him. 'I do not know! I might err in just where a Gate opens, any mage might - but it must go to some place that I, personally, know! And I do not know this place. I have never seen it in my life!'
Skif looked around wildly, as Nyara took a wary grip on Need's hilt. 'Where are we, then?' he demanded.
No one had an answer for him.
Mornelithe Falconsbane lay quietly in his silk-sheeted bed and feigned sleep. He was still uncertain of many things. His memories were still jumbled, but the bonds upon his powers told him the most important facet of his current condition.
He was a prisoner.
Still, it could be worse. He might be a captive, but at least his captivity featured all the luxurious appointments and appearance of being an honored guest.
But it was captivity nonetheless.
Falconsbane was not the master here; that young upstart puppy called 'Ancar' was. That alone rankled, although he endeavored not to show how much.
He spent most of his time in sleep, either real or feigned. He was not at all prosperous at the moment, and he was only too well aware of the fact. Merely to rise and walk across a room cost him more effort than summoning an army of wyrsa had when he was at his full powers. And as for working magic -
At the moment, it was simply not possible.
How long had he hovered in that timeless Void? He did not know; it was more than mere days, more like weeks or even months. He had been snatched from that dark and formless space before he had gone quite mad, and he had drained his magical power just to keep his physical body barely alive. Now both were damnably slow to return to him. He had become used to recovering swiftly, taking the lives of his servants to augment his own failed powers. That was not an option open to him at the moment, and his recovery was correspondingly slow.
In fact, even as he lay in his soft, warm cradle, he knew that it was weakness that kept him here rather than his own will. It would be very hard to rise and force his body into some limited form of exercise; very easy to drift from feigned into real sleep. And very attractive as well, for sleep held far more pleasant prospects than reality.
