They're mine. By the Hundred Little Gods, Bram was right.
Now, if he could just keep them.
"All right, men—back to town"' he shouted over the howling wind. "I'll order hot spice-wine for all, and throw a joint on to roast!"
With a cheer, the men formed a long line, with the best tracker in front, the one most likely to read the falling traces of their passage in the snow. Tremane, the old man, the boy and the flock brought up the rear. He hadn't thought the sheep would be able to keep up, but they plowed valiantly along, spurred on by the sheepdog. And perhaps urgent thoughts of a warm byre and sweet hay, and shelter from the wind and snow moved through those woolly heads as well. They shoved right along beside the last of the men, their bleating barely audible over the wind.
The last traces of their path were obliterated by the wind, but at that point, by listening carefully, some of those with the best hearing made out the sounds of the horn calling out. By spreading out again, they quickly found the men left beside the end of the string-and-stake markers. At that point it was an easy task to make their way back to the gate, and the beacon fire over it was a welcome sight indeed.
Tremane sent the old man and his charges off to the town without waiting to hear his thanks; for one thing, he wanted those sheep out of his garrison, and for another, he wanted to know how the other two parties had fared. With a word to the quartermaster to break out some barrels of wine and mulling spices, bring in a joint of beef for each building, and send them all along to the barracks, he paused only long enough to leave his snow-caked cloak in the hands of an orderly. He ran up the stairs to his office, leaving lumps of melting snow from his boots in his wake.
Nevis was waiting for him, with a smile on his face. "The other two parties are back, Commander," he reported. "There was some injury due to frostbite, and one man hurt by a boggle, but it was a minor wound. All the children and the better part of the livestock were recovered."
The last of his energy flowed away like the melting snow, and he collapsed into a chair. "We have had more than our share of good luck," he said heavily. Nevis nodded vigorously.
"Have you any orders, sir?" the young man asked.
He started to say no, then changed his mind. "Yes, I do," he told the aide with a smile. "First—you and the other aides see that the men get that hot spiced wine I ordered. Second, see to it that the volunteers get spiced brandy instead of mere wine; you have sufficient authority to order it, so do so. Third—" he got up and began walking toward his bedroom, shedding wet garments as he walked. "—pick up this mess, and see that I am not disturbed. I intend to hibernate. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Commander—" Nevis began.
And if he said any more, it didn't matter. The closing door cut it off.
Eight
Firesong stood at one of the windows of his ekele garden, feeling the chill coming off the "glass," frowning out at the snow-bedecked landscape beyond. The first snowfall of the season in Valdemar was usually nothing more than a light frosting of white; this snow had fallen for hours, and covered the ground to an uncomfortable depth. Firesong had not troubled to leave the ekele since he'd last returned to it to warm his bones. Snow. I hate snow, he thought rebelliously, arms crossed over his chest. It isn't worth crossing all that muck to get to the Palace, not for anything short of a terrible emergency. An'desha wasn't in the ekele; he hadn't been "home" last night or the night before. Much as Firesong would have enjoyed indulging himself in a jealous fit, he knew he couldn't legitimately permit himself one. The same snow that kept him here had discouraged a weary An'desha from coming back. Firesong knew where both Karal and An'desha had been for the past two days. Karal was dancing attendance on Solaris, and when she Gated back to Karse, he was busy with Natoli, with whom he was spending most of his free time. An'desha had been working with the artificers the entire time. On nights when he worked late into the morning. he had taken to staying at the Palace—sleeping chastely enough, taking a bed in the pages' and squires' dormitory. Had Firesong cared to, he could have used a touch of magic and the still water in a basin to see exactly that, as he had the first time An'desha spent a night at the Palace.
He couldn't even be angry at An'desha anymore; the Shin'a'in was hardly to blame for the fact that they were drifting apart. An'desha's changing interests alone dictated that. He shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and his heavy silk clothing shifted softly against his skin. He's gone mystical, and I never could handle mystics. And yet, at the same time, he keeps trying to make magic into a craft rather than an art—something controlled by formula rather than intuition. Both of those positions were in diametric opposition to Firesong's own beliefs; An'desha could not have chosen anything more contrary if he'd planned to.
Firesong gritted his teeth until his jaw ached. Logically he couldn't be angry at An'desha for failing to fulfill Firesong's dream... but emotion does not respond to logic. Part of him wanted to let An'desha go with a sad blessing, but most of him wanted An'desha to be just as miserable as Fire song was.
So An'desha didn't need or want an emotional bond? That was fine for him, but what about Firesong? I am not growing younger, and my opportunities become fewer with every passing year. Shay'a'chern number no more than one in ten; how can I hope to find a permanent partner when all like me are already paired up? Why must I go through my life like a white crow, cast out by the flock? Hadn't he earned his rewards by now? Didn't he deserve them?
All right, so he wouldn't have An'desha. He was resigned to that; he wouldn't go around beating empty bushes, hoping to flush birds from them. He needed more time, youth, more years of life! Then, perhaps he might find his soul match, given decades to search rather than mere years.
And he knew how to do it, too.
But it was wrong. That was what Ma'ar had done, though for different reasons. Ma'ar had wanted power, and there was not time enough in one life to accumulate all the knowledge and power that Ma'ar craved.
I only want—love. Is that purpose enough to make us different?
Not unless he could find a way to get those years of life without cheating anyone else of his. There must be a way to work the trick without hurting anyone!
His frustration grew as he stood there, once again racking his brain, trying to find a way to make the trick viable. It was so easy, that was the worst part! Ma'ar and all his successive incarnations had done all of the hard work, all the really dark work. Now the Sanctuary was in place and self sustaining; he had only to power it a bit further and link himself to it, and then he would have all the leisure he needed for his searches.
And even if I was old when I finally found him, I could link him there as well, and then find new bodies for us both....
Was that so wrong? Was it possible to use something built with blood and not be tainted himself? What dark paths were these thoughts leading him down?