Only one or two lamps had been lit, but there was a bright fire going in the fireplace—and as An'desha had hoped, there was no one in the reading area. He chose a comfortably padded chair, draped his coat over the back, and sprawled sideways with one leg over an arm of the chair, staring into the fire.
So if Ma'ar and all his other "selves" were able to control and persuade people—would it be wrong to use that same power to help people? To get them to compromise with each other, for instance—would that be wrong? I wish I had some help with this... I have a feeling I'm getting out of my depth. The trouble was that he was too close to those memories; seeing such abilities and powers in action made it very tempting to assume that such things could be used for good purposes.
Someone once told me that even the deadliest of poisons could be used to heal—with expertise and great care, in the minutest of doses. How tiny a dose of "persuasion" was moral? He didn't know where the line should be drawn between "trying to help people," and "manipulating people."
Firesong would be no help at all, even though he was a Healing Adept. His powers were all concerned with the world of the material, not the world of the soul, heart, and spirit. He tended to get very impatient when An'desha strayed into the realms of what he considered to be "mystical." For all of his insistence on the intuitive nature of magic, he was bound up in the practical and had little use for mysticism.
I'd like to ask Karal, but he's already carrying so many burdens, I'm afraid to add one more to his load. It might be the one that breaks his back—or his spirit. Poor Karal, He was carrying far too much responsibility on those slim shoulders.
Perhaps that sweet lady, Talia? But—no, really, what he wanted wasn't comfort, it was a place to start figuring out ethical solutions.
This was the one place where his old nemesis, the shaman of his Clan, might have been useful. The old man was as rigid as dried rawhide, but he was enough in tune with the Star-Eyed that he never gave anyone bad spiritual advice that I ever heard of. And he knew his ethics.... The new Shin'a'in envoy was not a shaman; he was temporary, the brother of his Clan Chief, and An'desha really didn't like him any more than Karal did. If only Querna were still alive! He wouldn't have hesitated a moment in asking her help.
If only I had someone, anyone, to talk to! No, not "anyone" A shaman, a priest. But I don't know which priests here to trust except Karal; I'd rather talk to someone who comes from the same background as me. How ironic! I got myself into trouble by running away from the shaman, and now I would give anything to be able to talk to one.
The fire gave a sudden flare, and he jumped as a deep, purely mental chuckle washed warmth through his mind.
:You had only to ask, little brother,: said a mind-voice he had thought never to hear again, as the Avatar of the Star-Eyed that he knew as Tre'valen appeared in the fire before him. The last time he had seen the Avatar had been when he was in Hardorn, and Falconsbane had control of his body. Although he was told that the Avatars appeared in Valdemar when they transformed him and Nyara from their feline Changechild forms to something more human, that was one appearance he did not remember. Mercifully, perhaps; the transformation had not been without a great deal of physical pain. Flesh was torn loose from its Adept-shaped form and resculpted, even the hairs of his body were altered in one massive rush of magical power. A gift from the Star-Eyed for his bravery, but no changes were without pain.
As Tre'valen had often before—though never in Valdemar—the Avatar took the form of a hearth-bound vorcelhawk that fanned and mantled its wings of fire amid the flames dancing in the fireplace. :I am pleased that you have come this far, although the state of your heart is bringing you no peace at the moment. We have missed talking with you. I believe, little brother, that we can help you.:
Firesong paced the floor of the sitting room of the ekele, looking out from time to time at the bare, wind-tossed branches of the trees outside the window. His high-cheekboned face bent with a frown. An'desha had gone off on his own—again. The young Shin'a'in was spending less and less time in the ekele, a complete reversal of the times when Firesong had been unable to get him to go beyond the doors of the indoor garden on the ground floor.
He's changed. He's still changing. Neither of those thoughts sat particularly well with him. He didn't particularly like the direction of those changes, and he definitely did not know how to cope with them.
It had been so pleasant when An'desha was uncertain of himself, when he looked only to Firesong for answers and reassurance in a strange and frightening world. It had given Firesong such a delightful feeling to be needed so desperately.... No one had ever needed him like that before, although plenty of people had wanted him. That very dependence had been quite attractive.
On the down side, he had to admit it had occasionally been an annoying and even constrictive relationship, for he could not even joke and flirt with Darkwind without sending An'desha into hysterics.
But most of the time it had been very, very sweet.
His conscience said it had been more than just "sweet." Admit it. It gave you a great deal of pleasure to have that kind of power over someone. An'desha would willingly have been your slave, if you'd asked it of him. He winced a little; his conscience was altogether too accurate.
In those days it had been as if An'desha was barely afloat after a shipwreck and did not know how to swim, and absolutely depended on Firesong to get him to safety.
The room was exactly twelve long paces wide; ten, to avoid running into walls. I was very content with that; with An'desha being passive, and putting all responsibility for his life into my hands.
Well, not all responsibility. Even then, An'desha had shown flashes of stubborn will, even though the application of that will was hardly productive. Firesong's own conscience and memory reminded him of that, too.
Enough pacing! Firesong flung himself sullenly onto a couch and lay there with his hair and one leg trailing over the side, staring up at the ceiling. It was getting dark, but he did not bother to light any of the lamps, although he could have done so with a thought. His firebird looked at him curiously from his superior elevation on his perch, but when Firesong didn't show any interest in scratching him, the bond bird yawned and went back to preening himself. False sparks sparkled along the snow-white firebird's feathers whenever Aya roused all his feathers and shook them, and in repose in this uncertain half-light, the quills of each feather glowed softly. Aya seemingly hovered in the air, his perch invisible in the near-dark, a glowing ghost of feathered light.