When you're a merc, you can't guarantee that you're going to be working for the right side."
"At least we don't have to worry about that," Elspeth said. Skif simply raised an eyebrow-and Quenten had the distinct feeling that Skif was debating how much to tell him.
"I assume you've heard of blood-path mages?" he asked, and was surprised when Skif shook his head. "oh. Hellfire, I guess I had better tell you, then. They're mages who take their power from others." He waited expectantly, for them to make the connection, then added, a little impatiently, "By killing them. Usually painfully. And by breaking and using them, if they have the time to spare." Elspeth's eyes widened. "That's what Ancar is doing-or at least, that's what some of the people who've escaped from Hardorn say he and his mages are doing. I didn't know there was a name for them." Skif scowled. "So, which school teaches people to do that?" he asked, growling a little.
Quenten shrugged. "There are schools, but the moment anyone finds out about them, they're destroyed. If the mages haven't scattered first, which is what usually happens. No sane ruler wants that on his soil. But to tell you the truth, that kind of magic usually isn't taught in a school, it's usually one-to-one. A blood-path mage who decides to take an apprentice just goes looking for one. They try to find people who have potential but are untrained."
"And can't tell one mage from another?" Skif asked, with a hard look at him. Quenten nodded; Skif had already seen what he was driving at.
"Sometimes; sometimes they look for someone who is impatient, who is power-hungry and ruthless. That's the kind that usually rebels-eventually; has a confrontation with his master, and either dies, wins, or has a draw that both walk away from. And that is how they reproduce themselves, basically." Quenten did not mention what happened in the first example; he decided, all things considered, it was better to wait until Elspeth was gone.
"Now, there's one thing I have to warn you about, and it's back to the same old story of 'you aren't in Valdemar anymore." For every rule there's an exception-and this is the one to blood-magic. There are perfectly good people that practice a couple of forms of magic that require a blood-sacrifice. The Shin'a'in shamans, for one. Sometimes they spill their own blood, just a little, because any spillage of blood releases a lot of power. And in times of a very dire problem, a shaman or Swordsworn may actually volunteer as a sacrifice, as a kind of messenger to their Goddess that things are very bad, they need help, and they are willing to give up a lot to get it." Elspeth's eyes got very wide at that. "You're joking-" Quenten shook his head. "I am not joking. It's very serious for them.
It hasn't happened in the last three or four generations-and the last time it did, the Plains were in the middle of a drought that had dried even the springs. People and herds were dying. One of the shamans threw himself off the top of the cliffs that ring the Plains. Right down onto an altar he'd set up down there."
"And?" Skif asked.
"And the drought ended. They say that he roams the skies of the Plains as a spirit-bird now. Some even say he transformed as he fell, that he never actually hit the ground." It was Quenten's turn to shrug. "I'm not their Goddess, it's not my place to make decisions. What's better; answer every little yelp for help, or make people prove they need it?"
"I don't know," Skif admitted. Elspeth just bit her lip and looked distressed. "But I can see what you mean; we really aren't home, are we?
"There's a lot of gray out here, and precious little black and white," Quenten replied with a hint of a smile. "The Shin'a'in aren't the only odd ones, either. There're the Hawkbrothers, what the Shin'a'in call Tale'edras. Nobody except the Shin'a'in shamans knows anything about them, mostly because they tend to kill anybody that ventures into their territories." Skif scrutinized him closely for a moment. "If you're waiting for a gasp of horror, Master Quenten, you aren't going to get one. There's a reason you told us this, and it has to do with the situation not being black and white. So? Why do they kill people who walk across their little boundary lines?" Quenten chuckled. "Caught me, didn't you? All right, there's a reason that I think is a perfectly good one-and to be honest, they will try and turn you back; it's only if you persist that they'll kill you. The Shin'a'in say that they are the guardians of very destructive magics, that they 'purify' a place of these magics, then move on. And that they kill persistent intruders so that those intruders can't get their hands on that magic. Seems like a good reason to me." Skif nodded. "Any evidence to support this?" Quenten raised an eyebrow. "Well, their territories are all in the Pelagirs, and there are more weird, twisted, and just plain evil things in there than you could ever imagine. And they do periodically vanish from a place and never come back, and once they're gone, anybody that moves in never has trouble from the oddling things again. So? Your guess is just as valid as mine. I'd believe the Shin'a'in, personally." Skif's eyes were thoughtful, but he didn't say anything. Elspeth stifled a yawn at that moment, and looked apologetic.
"It isn't the stories, or the company, Master Quenten," she said ruefully." It's the long ride and the wonderful meal. We started before dawn, and we got here just before sunset. That's a long day in the saddle; Skif's used to it, but I'm a lot softer, I'm afraid."
"Well, I can't blame you for that," Quenten chuckled. "The truth is, I'm not up to a day in the saddle myself, anymore. Why don't you find that bed I showed you? I was thinking of calling it a night, myself."
"Thanks," she said, and finished the last of the wine in her glass, then pushed herself away from the table. She gave Skif an opaque look but didn't say anything.
"Good night, then," Quenten supplied. "I'll see you off in the morning, unless you want to stay longer."
"No, we're going to have to cover a lot of ground and we're short on time," she replied absently, then smiled. "But thank you for the offer.
Good night." ~ Skif looked after her for a moment after the door had closed, then turned to Quenten. "There's something- else you didn't want her to hear," he said, "About those blood-path mages. What is it?" A little startled by Skif's directness, Quenten came straight to the point. "It's about the ones who are looking for an 'apprentice'-or at least they call it that-who is untrained but powerful. The ones looking for someone who is totally naive about magic. Like your young friend there.
Skif nodded, his eyes hardening. "Go on."
"What they're looking for is the exact opposite of someone like themselves.
They have two ways of operating, and both involve subversion." He paused to gather his thoughts. "The first is to corrupt the innocent."
"Not possible," Skif interjected. "Trust me on that one. If you've ever heard that Heralds are incorruptible, believe it." Well, anyone who rides around on a Guardian Spirit probably is, no matter what people say about everyone having a price. I suppose Heralds do, too, but it's not the kind of Price a blood-path mage could meet. "Well, the other is destruction. Luring the innocent into a place of power, then breaking him. Or her." Quenten gave Skif a sharp look. "And don't tell me that you can't be broken. Anyone can be broken. And a blood-path mage has all the knowledge,, patience, and means to do so. Their places of power are usually so well guarded that it would take a small army to get in, usually at a terrible cost, and by the time they do, it's usually too late.