That moment when Falconsbane had thought to simply walk off - An'desha had taken a gamble and given the Adept a jolt he hoped Falconsbane would interpret as Ancar's coercions. The gamble had worked, but the old woman had been only too correct when she had warned that this was going to take every bit of cleverness and concentration he had. The Adept had come within a heartbeat of bringing down all their plans.
The die was cast. Whatever happened would follow from this, win or lose.
Falconsbane moved swiftly through the darkened, noisome streets to the city gate. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the odor of offal in the gutters, an odor even the bitter cold could not suppress. And this was supposed to be one of the better parts of this city! An'desha could not for a moment fathom why anyone would want to live in one of these hives. He felt a pang of longing as sharp as any blade for his long-lost Plains, or even the Pelagir territory Falconsbane had taken for his own. Wilderness, he thought achingly, as a vision of the endless sea of grass that was the Plains in late spring danced before his mind's eye. Shall I ever see it again?
On the other side of the gate in the city wall, the Faire spread out on the long slope of a meadow, inclining away from the city. Lighted stalls, wagons, and tents showed that the carnival was in full swing, and streams of people going to and from the faire proved that folk still craved entertainment. Perhaps they craved it even more, under Ancar's repressions.
Falconsbane made his way through the crowds; most folk ignored him or avoided him, but he hardly noticed. His eyes searched out and dismissed every occupant of every stage. He passed a wealth of jugglers, musicians, conjurers, salesmen of every sort of strange brew and device - And finally, where the crowd was thickest, he found what he sought.
He could not get too near the wagon-stage in question, for the people were piled ten and twenty deep around it. The performance he had heard so much about was just ending, but Falconsbane saw more than enough to make his heart race.
Dancing provocatively to the throbbing of a drum, posing and twisting in positions that rivaled the contortionists on the next stage, was Nyara.
Even with the foolish and patently false ears and tail she wore, and the peculiar makeup that added stripes to her face, it was clearly Nyara, dressed in a few veils and a singlet - And a collar and chain-leash.
She posed once more, dropped a veil, and whisked around the corner of the wagon, to what was obviously a performance tent - where, presumably, she would remove more than a single veil.
A fellow in an impossibly gaudy costume began chanting something to that effect, inviting the crowd to see "more of her," in just a half candlemark. Then he followed after Nyara, presumably to ready the stage inside the tent.
And after the initial shock and elation, Falconsbane could only think of one thing.
This is a trap.
An'desha panicked. To have come so far, and to have Falconsbane flee on the threshold - no, it could not happen! There had to be something that would push him past this, to the place where caution didn't exist! To the point of madness, of obsession -
Yes! There was!
Quickly, even as Falconsbane completed that thought, An'desha added another, praying to the Star-Eyed that he would not notice An'desha's "voice" in his head.
She was with the gryphons; they must have the gryphons with them!
Falconsbane's field of vision narrowed and tinged red with a rush of rage that sent a flood of blood to his head, and burned along his veins.
:Good boy! I'll warn the girl,: came a harsh whisper to An'desha, as the mere mention of gryphons triggered Falconsbane's powerful, ancient obsession. Now it did not matter to Falconsbane that this might be a trap. Nothing mattered - except that there might - no, must - be gryphons, the two gryphons who had twice escaped his wrath. Maybe the little ones, too!
An'desha felt a new fear now as he realized that his thoughts and Mornelithe's were intertwining the more he manipulated the Adept's thoughts. He was inserting thoughts and ideas so much quicker than before - what if Mornelithe left this body and took An'desha's consciousness with him, instead of abandoning the body to its rightful owner?
Then that is the price I must pay, An'desha thought, with smothered despair, and spurred Mornelithe forward. Either way, may the Goddess ensure Mornelithe is done for.
Quickly, Falconsbane shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring protests and return shoves, working his way to the end of the row where he could get to the back of the tents. There, if anywhere, would be the gryphons. They were too big to hide anywhere else.
He shoved his way into clear space and darkness, out of the reach of the torches illuminating the public areas of the carnival. He had squeezed his way between two of the wagons, and was now in an area of the carnival meant only for the Faire-folk. There were at least a dozen large tents here, all in a neat row, most glowing softly from within. Beside one, a horse was grazing quietly. It screamed to his mage-senses of illusion; he looked below the illusion - to see a poor old, broken-down nag where the glossy bay was standing.
Amusing. Typical trickster's chicanery.
And even as he got his bearings, he saw the shadow of a gryphon, briefly, against, the side of one of the tents.
Falconsbane took in that shadow, those waving wings, and went quite mad - a madness like a deadly storm, built over the course of centuries.
Falconsbane's hands blazed with power, ready to strike. He rushed at the tent, screaming at the top of his lungs in anger, burning the canvas away as he neared, and came to a halt -
And saw Nyara; she held a sword as if she actually knew how to use it! Behind her, a young, curly-haired man was using a lantern to make clever shadow-shapes with his fingers against the canvas.
It was a trap! But he would trap them! This had become absurdly funny. He -
Something dark loomed up behind him and struck like a lightning bolt before he could twist to evade it. He fell forward with a shock onto -
The point of the sword.
Held by Nyara.
But - there were no gryphons -
Falconsbane felt his rage ebbing, along with his power, and a great surge of bitter disappointment, just as the first wave of pain hit him.
No -
Firesong waited in the shadows of the back of the tent.
- when suddenly Nyara cried out desperately. "A gryphon! Somebody make a gryphon, one he can see! He's about to get away!"
Taken by surprise, with no illusion ready, he could only fumble after a bit of power to obey her.
Oh, please, don't let everything fall apart now -
Skif thrust his hands up in front of the lantern, as if he were doing a shadow-puppet play, and writhed his clever fingers into something that cast an amazingly lifelike shadow of a nodding gryphon on the back wall of the tent. The lower mandible opened and closed in a remarkable imitation of a gryphon talking, and his fingers made wingtips.
But would it be enough to fool Falconsbane?
He got his answer a breath later, as something - someone - shrieked with towering rage, then terrible power burned through the canvas and Falconsbane stood there - hands blazing, eyes afire with madness, teeth bared in an animalistic growl as if he would rend them apart like a beast of the forest or one of his own monsters.